Pieces of the Game
by VitaSeptima
Summary: It may be Harry's game, but Ruth has the final move. The end of Season 10 redux.
1. Prologue

_A/N – This is my little contribution to the collective healing from Season 10. The prologue takes place pre-season with the ensuing chapters jumping off from near the end of the second last episode. Cheers!_

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" _Tis all a Chequer-board of nights and days  
Where Destiny with men for Pieces plays_ _:  
Hither_ _and thither moves, and mates, and slays,  
And one by one back in the closet lays."_

 _The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám_

 _..._

It was a night made for secrets. Fingers of mist curled around corners, creeping through the darkness, coating surfaces with a silver sheen. Ruth could feel the dampness seeping into her skin as she walked. Her boots tapped lightly on the pavement as she kept her gaze forward, never pausing to look back. Vainly fighting the chill, she pulled the collar of her dark wool coat higher; a shiver ran through her and she recalled her life once lived in the sun. Or perhaps it was the illicit thrill of her mission.

She turned onto a smaller side street, large enough for intermittent pedestrian traffic but not deserted enough for her to stand out. The air reverberated with an insistent bass beat, the calling card of a trendy nightclub hidden behind some innocuous looking door. There were quieter places along her path, a pub, a restaurant. She glanced through the windows as she passed. People smiling and laughing, how she envied their cozy little lives.

A group of young revellers walked towards her, two girls singing, the boys talking loudly as young boys do, caught up in their own world, paying no heed to passersby. The tall one, in his early twenties, casually bumped into her, firing out an expletive and then immediately apologizing when he saw she was only a small woman in black. His sorry came with a crooked smile but she did not make eye contact, only nodded and carried on. She drove her hand deeper into her pocket, tightly gripping the small piece of plastic inside. She expelled a short breath of relief that the careless brush had not been a feint to steal her precious package.

She slowed her footsteps as she neared the meeting place, hazarding a backward glance to confirm she had not been followed. They watched her now, and she had grown accustomed to the sensation of eyes on her, charting her habits. She knew from first-hand experience the tedium of monitoring a target that had no life outside of work. No doubt they were puzzled by how such an unassuming woman could engender the sacrifice of a state secret and she had to admit there were times when she was as equally perplexed by the way events had unfolded. She inhaled a long slow breath, hoping to release the tension that had taken up residence in her shoulders. Hiding, lying, evading. Would there ever be an end to this life of secrets?

A leather-clad hand reached out from the shadows and pulled her into an alley. A yelp of panic arose from her throat, causing the other gloved hand to cover her mouth as she was pushed back against a brick wall.

"Ruth, it's me," a familiar voice hissed.

"Harry!" she hissed back, looking at him indignantly as she straightened out her coat, moving to create distance between them. "Was that really necessary?"

"Were you followed?" he asked, grabbing her elbow and propelling her into the blackness of the alley. They circumvented trash bins, a rusted blue dumpster, the ladder of a fire escape that hung dangerously low, their feet sliding on the cobblestones slick with moisture.

"I don't think so," she replied, feeling both annoyed and thrilled at the pressure of his fingers on her arm.

"You don't think so?"

"I'm not a field agent."

"Don't sell yourself short."

He slowed down, having reached the darkest heart of the alley. The noise from the street was muffled; the only sound was the static frizzle on an exit light hanging over a derelict door. The whir of a nearby exhaust fan droned beneath their voices, its churning blades serving as white noise to mask their conversation. A plume of steam escaped from a grate by their feet, surrounding them in a curtain of vapour. Harry gave a quick glance to his watch.

Harry gave a quick glance to his watch.

"How long do you have?" she asked.

He gave her a level gaze, "As much time as I care to give them."

She took a moment to study him. He stood before her, a bemused expression on his face as if this were a nightly occurrence for him. She had not seen him since Albany and ran her eyes over him noting the changes. He looked healthier, perhaps due to a regular routine of sleep and nourishment or perhaps it was the dim light of the alley. His hair was cut neat, no little curl at the back. She chastised herself for even remembering such a detail. He looked at her expectantly.

"Do you have it?"

"A dead drop would have been easier."

"Then we wouldn't have had a night out, would we?" he replied, giving her a sly smile.

She bent her head down, her hands moving to search the pocket of her coat. "An alley? Charming."

"I promise to do better next time."

The confidence of his tone surprised Ruth and her hand stilled in her pocket. From the corner of her eye, she gave him a look laden with circumspection. What exactly did he want from her? Of course, she had her suspicions but she would not take his feelings for her for granted, especially since she had been monumentally ungrateful at their last encounter. For her, their relations held the quality of living on an ice floe; one moment a solid refuge, the next a disappearing dream, melted by the burning light of scrutiny or sunk under a churning sea of guilt. They had not spoken directly to each other since Albany, Harry having somehow managed to get word to Dimitri, convincing the young agent to act as an intermediary between them. There had been no declarations of love on his part, no words of gratitude on hers, only a request from Harry for a laundry list of files. She had obliged - the man had saved her life after all - but the irregular subjects of the files had piqued her curiosity. She returned her attention to searching her pocket and produced a small grey memory stick. She did not hand it over to him immediately; instead, she wrapped her fingers around it and held it to her chest. She was no mere delivery girl and she wanted answers.

"What is this for?"

He raised an eyebrow at her curiosity. "Research."

She nodded as if she accepted his explanation, but only by half. "But why these particular ops?"

"I'm building a defense," he replied, matching her measured tone.

Her fingers curled tighter around the stick. The information contained on it was highly classified and though she was confident she had covered her tracks, she needed some assurances. As much as she trusted Harry, she wanted to know that this information would not come back to haunt him. Or her. "Tell me," she insisted.

"No," he flatly responded.

"I was involved in all these ops. I'll figure it out, you know."

"I'm sure you will."

His eyes remained locked on hers as he moved his hand up to trap her fist, raising his other hand to deftly pry her fingers from the flash drive, and having freed it slipped it into his coat pocket. A triumphant gleam flashed across his eyes eliciting a challenging glare from her. A subtle change came over his face, his features softening, his pupils expanding making his brown eyes black. She knew now was the time to look away, that this was how it always started; a gaze held too long, the final step before the fall. She dropped her eyes. He did not remove his hand from on top of hers but let it linger, rising with her chest as she drew in a sharp breath. Her heart hammered erratically under the layers of her coat. He stood looking down at her and she waited. He dipped his head to her ear.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She kept her head down and nodded, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment that the spell had been broken.

As he turned to move away, a cacophony of voices passed by the entrance of the alley, signalling another group of revellers. He turned back around, pushing her into the wall, hiding her with the bulk of his black coat. He moved in closer, causing her to rise on her toes as the space between them evaporated.

"They'll be gone in a minute," he quietly assured her.

She nodded, speech eluding her. She closed her eyes, her senses overwhelmed as he pressed into her, his warm, spicy scent enveloping her. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against hers and she struggled to control her breathing in an effort to reduce contact. She discreetly looked up at him and saw that his eyes were closed, a slight flare to his nostril as he inhaled. He let out a faint groan and her throat constricted at the sound. He leaned into her.

"I missed you."

"Did you?" she asked, hoping to sound nonchalant.

"This is the part where you say you missed me."

"Is it?" She looked off to the side, attempting to keep her head clear, although it was becoming increasingly difficult.

He smiled at her. The noise at the end of the alley had ceased and he turned to assess the situation.

Ruth peered over his shoulder and saw two figures near the entrance to the alley, a man and a woman leaning against the wall. "Shit," she whispered, as the couple, oblivious to their presence, became entangled in a passionate embrace. Harry continued to stare. She tugged insistently at his sleeve, rousing him from his voyeurism. "Do something," she whispered.

He turned back and pushed her deeper into the shadows, looking at her speculatively. "What would you have me do?"

"I don't know..." She shook her head, searching for an answer, her mouth forming silent words. In the end, she looked up at him, eyes wide, choosing to answer with a nebulous "something."

The moment she uttered the word, she knew from the gleam in Harry's eye that he had seized upon it, interpreted it, construed the meaning to fit his own, knowing that instead of a plea he had heard an invitation. The blades of the exhaust fan slowly clicked to a halt, leaving only the crackling hiss of the flickering light, the hum of its electricity moving through the air, heavily charged, pulsating around them, through them. Harry looked at her intensely. This time, she held his gaze, a coil of frisson quickening at the bottom of her spine, twisting up and blossoming into a heat that spread across her chest. Her eyes fell to his lips, glimpsing the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. The darkness of the alley closed in around then and they stood oblivious to the rest of the world.

He shifted his weight and extended a gloved hand towards her face, gently placing it on her cheek. She stood transfixed, stunned by the intimacy of his touched, hypnotised by the look in his eye. He moved in closer and bowed his head, pressing a soft kiss against her lips and she closed her eyes succumbing to the sweetness. He pulled away, leaving the space of breath between them.

From under her lashes, she looked up at him and whispered, "That's not quite what I had in mind."

"How about this?" he murmured.

His hands fell to her waist and he brought his lips down to hers, this time, harder, more insistent. Her world tipped to one side and her hand rose to his chest, clutching at the lapel of his coat for balance. Her other hand came to rest on his arm, her fingers feeling the tension beneath the layers of wool, taut, controlled, restrained. She moved closer, her foot finding the space between his, pressing into him, losing herself in the folds of his coat. Her fingers came up to the back of his neck, and she lightly ran them over the exposed skin at the top his collar, feeling the soft bristle of newly shorn hair. Resistance melted and he tightened is arms about her, pulling her in, their silhouettes merging, disappearing into the shadows, the mist, each other.

A loud bang echoed throughout the alley. Their heads jolted apart in surprise. The thumping blades of the exhaust fan churned into action, the noise pulling them back to the present. Time continued on with on with its forward fall. They had stolen a moment away from the watchers and Albany. They stood softly panting, reeling from the kiss and internally berating themselves for becoming so immersed in it that they had let down their guard.

"I have to go," said Harry whispered, his hands remaining on her waist.

She nodded in agreement, stepping out of his grasp, her palms smoothing down the side of her coat. "I'll be at the hearing," she assured him.

"I'd rather you not."

"It's the least I could do."

He pulled his collar up and motioned with his hand. "You had better leave first."

She rocked back and forth as if to leave and then stopped, deciding against it. She looked at him, her head tilted to one side, her nervous agitation stilled for once. At some point she would have to address it, the subject that hung in the air between them; the risk he had taken to save her life.

"Thank you," she said simply.

He looked at her and suppressed a smile.

She knew that she didn't have to say anymore, that he would understand that she was not thanking him for the kiss but for his sacrifice, that to say anything more would be superfluous. For two people of above average intelligence, words did not always work in their favour. In the darkness of the alley they had turned a corner, graduated to another plateau, and for the time being that was enough. She hovered with indecision, wondering if she should kiss him goodbye. Should he not make it through the tribunal she might never see him again. Refusing to even contemplate such a thought, she decided not to tempt fate by saying goodbye and quickly turned away. As she headed back down the long length of the alley, a smile played on her lips and she raised her fingers to touch them, her heels barely clicking on the stone as she walked. A glow radiated from a forgotten place deep within her centre, infusing her with warmth. For the first time in a long while, she did not feel the dampness.

The mouth of the alley opened up before her and she disappeared into the fog.

Harry stood alone listening to her footsteps as they faded into the mist, bewildered by what had transpired. Earlier that day he had promised himself that he would keep the encounter strictly business, a handover, nothing more. He had held the upper hand, for the most part, controlling the situation until he had made the mistake of looking into her eyes. It had only taken a moment for him to fall into their ocean blue depths. Her scent clung to him, the notes still filling his nostrils, a fragrance he couldn't quite capture, just like the woman herself. He had held her in his thrall for a brief moment and then like so many times before she had slipped away. Even in that moment, he had not fully touched her, the barrier of his gloves preventing him from feeling her skin. He reached up to the back of his neck where she had touched him, giving a quick shake of his head as a shiver ran through him. The leather of his gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers, wanting, restless with the memory of her. A part of him wondered if it had been a dream. He checked his pocket and felt the hard plastic of the flash drive, confirming that she must have been there to hand it off to him. He blinked, marshalling his thoughts, he needed to stay focused. He slowly walked to the entrance of the alley.

Leaning against the wall, he looked into the veiled darkness, careful to keep to the shadows. He narrowed his eyes, straining to see through the mist. Nothing. He could wait. If his acquaintance with Ruth had told him anything it was that he could be a very patient man. He was rewarded for his patience when two figures appeared, walking towards a third man, young, tall. He was certain it was the man and the woman who had been locked in a clinch earlier but he did not recognize the other man. As they stood and talked, Harry observed a change in their body language; tense, vigilant, heightened. These were not ordinary revellers; they had the marking of agents. He had come to know the rotation that shadowed him but this was a different crew and years of instinct told him they were not friendlies. Had they seen him and Ruth? No matter, after Albany his feeling towards her could hardly be secret. The figures moved off and he let his head rest against the cool brick of the sheltering building. He was old and paranoid, seeing enemies everywhere. He wondered if he would ever be free of the tangled web of the Service.

He blew a breath through his cheeks and turned to walk back into the alley. Reaching the spot beneath the fizzling exit sign, he paused to listen to its crackle, remembering the feel of her lips on his. A quiver longing stirred low in his belly. He would negotiate his way back into the service or at the very least a dismissal with dignity and then he would find his way back to her.

He reached toward the door, pulling out the small piece of wood he had placed between the jamb and the door to stop it from completely closing. He effortlessly slipped through the opening. He could only hope that when the time came, his exit from the Service would be as clean.


	2. Chapter 1

_A/N – Thank you for the kind reviews. The next few chapters dovetail with events from episodes 5 & 6\. Just using what the writers set up and letting it "crinkle" out a bit differently. Thanks for reading!_

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The clock ticked and an imperceptible sigh moved through the darkened house, each room languishing in shadow but for the one at the top of the stairs. Bathed in a pool of light, head bowed over a well-worn desk, Harry sat sifting through microchips and micro secrets, unravelling the tangled threads of his life. The clock chimed signalling the hour, compounding the sensation that time was running out, that with the death of Jim Coaver he had been outmanoeuvred. There had been many times when he had backed an opponent to the edge, finishing them off with one small tap. Now it was his turn to wait for the final blow.

He sat back in his chair, brushed his hand over his eyes, and regarded his half-empty tumbler sitting on a stack of papers. He looked at it ruefully. Having navigated coups, treason, betrayal, and the loss of colleagues to staggering to measure, he now found himself in the twilight of his career with only a bottle of vodka for company. Not even a quaffable scotch. His lips curled in a wry smile as he acknowledged the maudlin hue of his thoughts. There was a time when he would have gone down swinging, papers swept from the desk, raging at the night; the sheer force of his anger cowing all those before him. Was it all lost? That sureness of purpose, the utter faith in his convictions, the drive to carry on no matter what the cost? Had they finally won? No, he told himself, it was not a defeat, but merely a strategic retreat.

The trill of the doorbell echoed throughout the house, shattering his silent contemplation. His eyes darted over the files strewn across his desk and he quickly calculated if he had time to hide the fragments of his past. The bell chimed again with a greater insistence. He heaved a sigh and held his hands up to the Fates. Let them find what they may. After Albany, after Elena, what was one more exposed secret? He reached to switch off the desk lamp and roused himself from his chair.

Moving to the top of the stairs, he spied the outline of a lone figure through the frosted glass of the door. They had not come for him yet, he surmised as he descended the stairs. What ghost would it be this time ready to point a bony finger at the ruins of his life? Inhaling a deep breath, he opened the door.

"Ruth?"

Of course, his last mistake in a litany of many. Had he ever done anything right where this woman was concerned? There had been a kiss and with it a promise of something more. A bloody date a least. The reprieve he had been granted from Albany had not extended to his past and that had come back to haunt him tenfold. Each attempt he had made to sort out the sordid mess stirred up by the appearance of Gavriks had only served to mire him deeper in infamy, consequently driving Ruth further away. He had tried, in his clumsy, inarticulate way to protect her, truly believing that the Home Office would be safer, away from the Russians, away from him, but he knew, as evidenced by the countless times that evening his fingers had ghosted over her number on his phone, he could never completely let her go.

"Harry." She waited expectantly in the doorway, her hands buried in the pockets of her dark coat. "May I come in?"

He ushered her in and closed the door. She moved through the hallway, stopping three steps in, observing the dim stillness of the house.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?"

He gestured with his hand to take her coat, stepping behind her to assist. Their hands met at the rise of her shoulder and he lowered his head down to her ear, conspiratorially. "Isn't that what old spies do?" She turned ever so subtly towards him, as he knew she would and he felt a tiny thrill at the nearness of her cheek. Her lips parted slightly and they shared the same pocket of air, as he knew they would. Oblique; never straight on. That was their dance. Taking her coat, he gently placed it on a hook. "We're you followed?"

"That's the least of our worries," she retorted wryly.

That's a comfort, thought Harry; if there was nothing else between them, at least, they shared worries.

They stood in the hallway. This was their milieu. Hallways, corridors, alleyways. A moment stolen and then shattered by a call, a colleague, their own inelegance. She looked up at him. He had seen that look many times. It bespoke bad news and he realized she was not going to be forthright with said bad news. She licked her lips, confirming his suspicions that she was holding something back.

"How is Towers?" he asked, playing along, willing to engage in the smallest of talk if it kept her standing beside him.

"His ears are still ringing from the bomb. Can't hear a thing I say. Rather like my old boss."

"I always listened to you, Ruth," he stated softly, imbuing the words with a weight meant only for her.

Raising her brows, she opened her mouth as if to challenge him but decided against it.

"I'm sorry about the laptop," she said, steering the topic away from them. "Sasha was waiting in my car. Somehow he knew. I think one of us is compromised."

Harry nodded in agreement. "I found a bug in my car."

"Oh." She furrowed her brow as thoughts flickered across her face. She tried to remember what words they had spoken of in the warm intimacy of Harry's car. She continued with a feigned insouciance, "Well then, it's a good thing we didn't do anything..."

Harry's eyebrows lifted innocently. "Compromising."

Unable to hold his gaze, she glanced down, the corner of her mouth lifting, not so innocently.

Couldn't he ... couldn't she ... couldn't they just...

"Come," he commanded. Catching her small hand in his, he stepped towards the stairs. He felt her hand tense in his as she resisted, wary of his motives. He turned back to find her head tilted in question. "I need to show you something," he explained, the merest hint of entreaty in his voice.

They moved softly up the stairs, Harry still holding her hand, enjoying the feel of her slender fingers in his, amazed that she was allowing such contact after the past few frosty weeks but he was not about to question it. They crossed the landing and passed his bedroom. Images flashed across his mind and he fought the urge to pull her into the room, instead finding the resolve to carry on towards his study.

He entered the dark room, certain of his path, leaving her to hover by the door. He closed the blind and turned on the lamp, spilling a soft circle of light over the desk. She looked around at the scattered files and half-opened drawers.

"Did they search your house already?" she asked.

"No. This is all my doing. House cleaning." He reached over to a small black box on the desk and flicked a switch. 'Frequency jammer." He waved a hand towards the window. "They won't be able to hear us."

"Who?"

"The Cousins. The Russians. Our own. I don't know. But I certainly know an Obo van when I see one."

He fetched a glass from a nearby cupboard and crossed back to the desk. He held up a bottle of clear liquid. "Join me?"

She nodded and walked over to his desk. He stood before her, clinking the edge of the glass as he poured. They lifted their drinks in a token salute, looking at each other directly for the first time that evening. Ruth dropped her gaze first, concentrating on her tumbler as she took a sip.

"Vodka? Not your usual poison," she observed.

Harry rolled the liquid around in his mouth. "A present from our friend, Ilya Gavrik."

"I thought it tasted a little full of itself."

Harry smiled. This woman; what an impish little mind she had. He saw the wheels of that mind turning, assessing.

"You don't think it's been ...?" she asked, leaving the rest for Harry to fill in.

"Poisoned? No," he assured her. "He was drinking it himself. He paid me a visit this afternoon."

"He was here?" The information propelled her mind into overdrive. "Why? What is he playing at?"

"He came to tell me how gloriously fulfilling his life was, in contrast to the emptiness of my own."

"Your life is not empty," she hastened to assure him.

"I rattle around this big house, alone, while he has a wife. And a son."

"You didn't tell him about Sasha?"

"It's rather hard news for a man to hear."

"But you have a family. You have children."

"But they're not here, are they? And to top it off he has a tortoise in the garden."

Her brow furrowed. "Tortoise in the garden? Is that code for something?"

Once an analyst always an analyst.

"No," he responded, "It's a reptile that lives in his garden and apparently it looks like me."

Ruth couldn't suppress a grin as she sipped her vodka. "Speaking for myself, I'd rather have a cat."

Harry chuckled, easing himself into his chair, the leather gently creaking. Ruth stepped around the desk, stretching out her legs as she leaned back against the wood. There was a strange familiarity to the scene as if they were back in his office at Thames House. With no files to hide behind or pen to occupy her fingers, she drew small circles on the side of her glass. Mirroring her actions, he rubbed his thumb along the rim of his glass, feeling the absence of a tie to smooth, or a jacket to open and close. He sat before her, shoeless, feet in argyle socks completely bereft of his Section Head armour, feeling somewhat exposed in his opened shirt and rolled up sleeves. It was all rather unsettling, watching her watching him. He took a drink and her eyes followed his arm. He looked at her over the rim as he took a sip. She shifted, crossing her ankles and he noticed how the folds of her skirt fell away, showing the outline of her thighs, the fabric flowing down to her calves, encased in knee high boots, every inch of this woman covered in material. He looked at the layers of the skirt and wondered if he had seen it before or was it for the benefit of Towers. She diverted his attention by lifting her glass to take a drink. Finding it empty, she frowned and being a good host, he obliged by reaching over to the bottle and refilling their glasses. He raised his glass and took a large swig, hoping she had eaten; vodka was not a drink to be had without food. Although maybe a drunk Ruth wasn't such a bad idea. He, on the other hand, felt nothing, acutely aware of the volume alcohol he needed to drink these days in order to feel the warm numbness he had come to rely on. He shrugged off any more self-reflection and continued with their conversation.

"The kicker is, Gavrik knew about Elena and I."

Ruth choked a fraction on her drink. "What?"

"He knew that I turned her, that she spied for us, and that we had an affair." Ruth flinched. He had touched a wound. "But, he tells me his love for her was so deep, so profound, that he was able to forgive her treachery. And because of that, he has a wife, a son, a home, a tortoise in the garden and I have nothing'

"That's not true, Harry," she murmured.

He raised his eyes to her with a look of reproach, unspoken words hanging in the air – he didn't have her.

"Why did you come here tonight?" he asked in a low voice, hoping against hope that she would lean over and kiss him.

She kept her eyes lowered to the carpet and took a deep breath. "They want to extradite you."

Harry inhaled sharply. It was a punch in the stomach. He had suspected there would be reprisals but not one so great.

Ruth looked up at him. "Of course, Towers is fighting it but the Americans aren't letting up. I'm sure there's an element of payback for all the extraditions you've thwarted in the past, as well as the Coaver debacle. Towers has run out of ammunition. He keeps asking me questions and I can only tell him so much because I don't know if you've told me everything."

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his glass, contemplating his next move. The problem was he didn't want to move, he wanted to sit there all night, watching her lean against his desk, drowning himself in the high-priced Russian vodka and forget about the whole damn mess. It would only be a temporary oblivion. All the drink in the world could not free him from his past and he knew that his thoughts had summoned her there for a different reason. Standing up, he placed his glass on the desk and opened one of the bottom draws, pulling out a soft black leather case. He walked over to the safe on the other side of the room and spun the tumblers to unlock it. He pulled out a pile of files and three flash drives and brought them over to the desk.

"Before you came I was trying to figure out a way to get these to you. You're the only one a trust. The only one I have ever completely trusted."

"What are they?"

"My secrets." He held up a thumb drive.

"That's the one I gave you," she observed.

"Very helpful in preparing my report on your value to the Service."

"You never did show me what was in that."

"I'm not dead yet. Besides, I'm sure it's one of the first things you ferreted out once you joined the Home Office."

She pursed her lips and looked away. He knew her too well. No institution was safe.

He handed her the thumb drive, wondering if she ever thought of that night in the alley. He knew he had. Many times. He halted his thoughts before they ran to dangerous ground and produced another USB stick.

"This one contains a nice sampling of information on certain members of parliament."

"We could use this as leverage to fight your extradition."

Harry ran his hand over his face, pausing to think how he could explain it all to her. "I've been using Intel as leverage my entire career and I'm tired. Tired of outwitting one enemy only to turn around and find another in a different corner. It's time for me to face the judge, to own up to everything I've done. For all the times I've asked an officer to do the deed, for the times I've done it myself."

"But Harry, you have saved countless lives."

"The things we've done in the name of national security. None of us are clean, I least of all. I've bargained with the devil too many times. There comes a time when you have to pay the price."

"But why now?"

"I have no moves left, I've come to the end." He clenched his hand into a fist, the frustration with the situation coming through in his words. "I don't even know who I'm fighting."

"We can solve this together."

"I'm not dragging you any further down with me. I told you before; the embassy was the last thing I'd ask of you. I'll deal with this myself."

"Why won't you let me help you?"

"I don't need your help," he responded tersely, his voice low and tight. "I need to make sure that you're left with enough information so they can never hurt you."

"I can look after myself," she asserted.

"You're not listening to me!" he snapped at her.

"You're not listening to me!" she snapped right back.

"Why do you have to be so bloody stubborn?"

"Why must you be so impossible?"

They stood glaring at each other, eyes challenging, waiting for the other to surrender. The muscles in his jaw clenched as he tried to control his growing annoyance.

"Ruth, please..."

She expelled a gust of breath and with it part of her anger. "Fine. Show me."

He rolled a third memory stick in his palm, questioning the wisdom of giving it to her, knowing full well that she had not fully capitulated to his argument. In the end it would not matter, she was all he had. "This one contains assets that I still have contact with from my time at Six. Mostly out of the country if you need to go that route. And this," he pulled out a small leather bound book.

"Your little black book?" she inquired archly.

"I'm burning that." He handed the book over to her. "This is an assortment of rogues and vagabonds."

She opened the book and scanned the pages, taking a moment to register the names. She looked up at him in wonder. "You never told me."

"I'm telling you now," he countered. "Do with this what you will. I bequeath it all to you."

"Oh, Harry..." It was a sigh, a plea, a breath of resignation.

He gathered up the files and deposited them in the black pouch. "This is a list of safe houses that were never in the database at Five." He held up the last USB stick, "These are bank accounts that I have spread money over during my time in the service." He handed her the familiar wine coloured document of a British passport. "Should anything happen, you can access them through this identity, as my widow."

"Your widow?" She levelled her gaze at him.

He turned away from her. "When you returned, I thought it wise to construct a legend for you, in case we ever found ourselves entangled in someone else's machinations again," he told her matter-of-factly, it was business after all.

"And do you have the corresponding identity as my husband?"

"I have an identity for every occasion."

"Or every wife." she murmured, sarcasm creeping into her voice.

She would never let him forget, never make things easy for him.

"Always have an exit strategy," he continued.

"And what is your exit strategy?"

She looked at him. He ignored her question. Impossible man.

"That's it. That's everything," he said, with a tinge of resignation. "I'll dispose of the rest. No doubt, they'll tear the place apart. They might search yours too, so find a secure location to store it.'

He held the case out for her to take and they stood with it between them, Harry looking down at her, wanting to say more but not knowing what, feeling it all slip away. "You should go before they realise what we're up to."

She took the case from him and slipped the book inside, slowly dragging the zipper closed. She lowered her eyes and stood before him, her thumb absently rubbing the soft leather of the case. He watched as a valley formed between her brows, the crease that never fully disappeared, not as it once did when her forehead was smooth, less lined with care. It gave the appearance that she was always thinking, which he knew she was. He knew she was trying to work through this endless puzzle, rifling through the database of her mind to come up with a solution to the problem. There was none.

He let out a sigh, his breath stirring a stray strand of hair at her temple and, as he had many times before, he suppressed the urge to tuck it back into place. All the years of control, feelings in check, hope suspended, drawn to her but never acting on it. He wondered if she still felt it, that yearning for something more, an ache deep in her chest. His eyes fell to the scoop of her neckline, revealing the one exposed part of her skin, rising and falling enticingly before him. The faint hint of what was hidden underneath the fabric causing his heart to lodge in the back of his throat. He swallowed. It would be so easy to take her, to run away with her, to lose himself deep inside her. He closed his eyes, banishing the thoughts. He couldn't. It wouldn't be fair.

She moved her head as if to speak, her lips forming words but none came out. Her eyes darted about, her lip lower trembled and she bit on it, blinking rapidly.

"I should go then," she said softly.

"Yes," he whispered.

Neither moved. They stood completely still, barely breathing, not wanting to surrender the one final moment of intimacy. The quiet of the house permeated the room. He could hear the tick of the clock from downstairs. With heightened senses, he picked out her scent through the layers of her fragrance, the hair on the back of his neck tingling, a tightness spreading through his chest, his mouth dry. He waited, not daring to move, willing her to say something, anything that would let him know she still held feelings for him. That there was a place in her heart, after what had done, all the secrets she had learned about him. He had been a fool to let her go to the Home Office; he knew that he should have told her to stay. He wanted her to stay now, but he couldn't find the words. He had no right to ask, he had nothing to offer her, she was better off without him, but at that moment, she was standing so temptingly close. His chest moved with shallow breaths, his fingers opening and closing, wanting to touch her, restraining himself. She raised her eyes to him, large and dark in the dim light. He looked at her, holding her with his eyes, a hunger burning inside. Say it, he silently pleaded, say it.

"I don't want to go," she whispered.

It was all he needed.

With a force that surprised even him, he wound his arms around her, crushing her to him. All decorum vanished and he pressed his advantage, taking all he could before she had a chance to pull away. His mouth moved over hers, demanding, opening her lips, his tongue thrusting inside, filling her completely. Eyes shut, holding her tight, touching, tasting, stealing everything from her like a thief at a banquet, waiting to be caught out. One heartbeat, two, ten, he waited for her mind to catch up with his actions, for her to end the embrace. Instead, he heard a muffled thump behind him, the leather case hitting the floor as she unceremoniously dropped it. Her hands found their way over his shoulders, pulling him closer, her tongue awaking to play with his. Lost in the kiss, intoxicated by her, he felt a warmth no drink could ever provide. His hand ran along the curve of her hips, fingers pressing into softness, playing with the layers of her skirt, certain there was a woman beneath it all. She rippled against him, the hardness of her hipbone against his groin causing him to catch his breath. She was not all softness underneath, she could be hard and challenging which he found infinitely more alluring. Her hands moved over him, chest, back, hips, her touch far bolder than he had ever imagined. Kisses warm and wet, her breast moving against him, feeling her heat. His chest expanded at the thought of having her. His heart stopped only to start up again at ten times the pace.

Could he? Dare he?

In a single step, he moved her backwards, pushing her against the desk, the impact of their bodies toppling a pile of papers, secrets falling away, fluttering to the floor. Caught between him and the desk, she rose on her toes, his hands bending her back as she arched into him. With little effort, he inched her onto the desk, sliding her across the surface, tipping over an empty glass and sending it rolling off the edge, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. The heat of the moment outpaced their thoughts, reducing them to hot breaths and pounding hearts. His hand found its way under her skirt, sliding up her thigh, hitching back the material so he could stand between her legs. Fingers kneading into her flesh, he worked his way around to her back, pulling her into him. Clutching, grasping, searching for access. Warm breath in his ear, he heard her gasp. Her hand came down to still his.

"Harry," she tried to stop him through his kisses.

No, no not yet.

"Harry," she repeated.

A small voice in his head told him to slow down, to remember all the times that he had overstepped the mark that this woman would never be won in haste. It was silenced the clamour of a louder voice telling him that he that had waited for years, that this could be his last chance. His lips moved to her jaw, his tongue licking its way to her ear.

"Please don't tell me to stop."

"Not here," she panted against his cheek.

Why not here amongst the vodka and shredded pieces of his life? His hand slid up to cup her breast and she moaned softly. He found a delicious spot on her throat and paused to taste it. If this was his last meal, he was going to savour every piece of it. He would unwrap her and find the woman beneath these layers if it was the last thing he did. He tried to move her jacket out of the way but couldn't quite figure it out. His fumbling fingers slowed their pace, giving them a moment to breathe. He let out a growl of frustration, aware that she was smiling at his lack of finesse.

"What is this contraption?" he grumbled.

"It's called a belt," she answered, amused at how the simple accessory had slowed down his progress.

He moved to let her undo it as he continued to kiss her neck. "Why do you have to wear so many layers?"

"Decency."

"It's highly overrated." He smiled as he helped her slide the jacket down and over her arms. He brought his head back to look at her. "I don't think I've ever seen your arms."

"Of course you have."

His fingers encircled her wrist, so very tiny. His thumb massaged her pulse point then moving to follow the trail of veins up her inner arm. This creature of bone and sinew. This thinking, feeling woman that he had loved for so long; who existed before they met, carried on for a time without him and would continue to live after he was gone. He had only wanted to cherish her, protect her. He trailed his fingers up her to shoulder and along her beautiful collarbone, pausing to trace over a freckle and stopping at the dip where a silver necklace usually rested. He looked up and into her eyes, arrested by their blueness. Why on earth had he wanted to rush this experience? His hand slid behind her neck cradling the back of her head and he kissed her deeply, lovingly, closing his eyes and inhaling the sweet stillness of the moment.

She gently disentangled herself from him and eased herself off the desk. She took his hand. "Come."

He turned off the desk lamp, cloaking them in darkness.

Picking her way through the strewn papers, she led him to the door, and out into the twilight of the hall. He followed her, enjoying how the folds of her skirt swayed at her hips. Memories flashed through his mind of all the times he had curbed his impulses, resisted the urge to touch her, kiss her. He turned her and pushed her up against the wall, capturing her with his mouth, letting his hands roam over her, under her top, over her ribs, squeezing the soft flesh of her breasts. He pulled back, breathless.

She gave him a sly smile, a hint that she knew what he had been thinking. She leant in and kissed the notch at his collarbone, brushing her tongue into the dip, trailing up his neck, and over to lick his ear, eliciting a groan from deep inside him. He would have to be careful. If anyone could make him reconsider his exit strategy, it would be her. She slipped out from between the wall and him, taking his hand one more time and carrying on towards his bedroom.

Don't let them come tonight, he silently prayed, give me a few hours with this woman.

As if in answer to his silent plea, the clock chimed, the minute hand slowed and time relented, giving over the night to them.


	3. Chapter 2

_A/N- Thank you so much for your generous reviews! For a brief minute, I thought of quitting while I was ahead, but there is a semblance of a plot to this piece so hopefully you will find a few more things to enjoy. Cheers!_

* * *

That morning, as he had done countless mornings before, Harry opened the door to his wardrobe and ran his fingers along an assortment of ties pondering which one to wear. He glanced into the mirror hanging inside the door and a sly smile spread across his face. For on that morning, unlike any other morning before, Ruth sat on his bed, wrestling with her boots, the black pouch containing the fragments of his life laid beside her. She stretched out her leg, and slowly raised the zipper, once again covering every inch of her body, leaving him to contemplate the eroticism of putting clothes on.

The room was redolent with the scent of her, of them and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the memory of waking up to it all. Wrapped around her, hard against the soft flesh of her thigh, he had selfishly awoken her, wanting to hear her soft moans and whimpers. They had moved with each other in the faint morning light, he attempting to memorise every detail of her skin, every dip and curve. No words spoken, no vows declared, silent, but for the sound the rhythmic breathing. The night had been coloured with a desperate heat, leaving the morning to be slow and tender. Spent, holding her body tight in his arms, he had tried not to think of what it would be like to wake up with this woman every morning. Instead, he thanked the gods for giving him one night with her and in the next thought he cursed them for fulfilling his imaginings, now, at the juncture of his life where his conscious hung heavy with transgressions and he had decided to walk towards judgement.

He shook his head and brought himself back to the present. He stared at that ties, letting his thoughts wrestle with each other one last time. Run, they told him, run away with her, but he knew that was not the answer. If only every decision were as simple as choosing a tie. His fingers fell to a red tie and a gold tie. Gathering them up, he walked over to her, holding both in the air, silently asking her to choose.

"The red one, I think," she said, looking pleased that he had asked, her wavering smile the only indication of the undercurrent of sadness.

Harry tossed the rejected tie on the bed and threaded the red one under his shirt collar. He held out the two ends, inviting Ruth to tie it for him.

"I don't know how to tie it," she stated.

Harry looked at her incredulously. "How can you not know how to tie a tie? I thought you knew everything."

"I know all the important things," she replied enigmatically, leaving Harry to wonder if she was alluding to their last conversation on the park bench or what had happened the previous evening in that room. She rose from the bed to stand in front of him, watching as he lifted his chin, fingers nimbly knotting the silk.

"I find it strangely comforting that you have never tied a man's tie," he mused.

"I may know a thing or two about buttons."

"Ah, but the tie is the most important thing."

As he spoke, she ran her fingers over the red silk and straightened out the knot. His hands reached up and captured hers. She remained focused on his tie, unable to look at him directly, blinking, concentrating on the faint pattern in the material. He ran his thumbs back and forth over her knuckles, a movement meant to comfort her but ultimately calming him. Her forehead came to rest against his chin and he gave it a gentle nudge, kissing her temple.

"You could have been Lady Pearce," he whispered wistfully into her ear.

"Maybe I like being Ruth Evershed," she said with a half smile. "Having lost the name once, I'm rather inclined to keep a hold of it now."

So many layers, he thought, and he would never know them all. He had assumed that she had kept him at arm's length because of guilt and remorse, never entertaining the thought that she was also desperately holding on to her identity and independence.

"You don't have to do this," she urged, "There's still time."

"I do. I have to face up to what I've done. It's because of my actions that Jim is dead."

"They'll extradite you."

"We don't know that yet."

He stopped when he saw the look on her face. He knew her catalogue of expressions, this one being the one that said if he would only stop being an idiot and listen to her everything would work out. He had seen the look many times before, the quality of which had always made him feel as though they were married.

"Come away with me," she whispered

It was murmured on a breath so quiet that he wondered if he had dreamt it, for it was a phrase she had uttered many times in his dreams. He inhaled slowly, letting out a sigh so deep it shook them both. It took all of his resolve not to capitulate. He knew that she was caught up in the moment, that she gave no thought to the repercussions of their fleeing.

"A life on the run is no life at all. Always looking over one's shoulder. Never at ease. No friends. You deserve more than that."

"There's a place-"

"You said it yourself; we forfeited that kind of life."

The expression on her face fell. She blinked and looked away, the edges of her mouth hardening. "Don't twist my words around. You know that was something completely different."

They stood in silence, acutely aware of how often their words had come back to haunt them, the sheer litany of conversations and remembrances that they could pull out from their shared past to use against one another. He did not want to argue with her.

"You would blame me; resentment would eat away at us. Going from city to city, changing passports, identities. I've seen it happen too many times. We would be built on lies, it would fall apart, and then where would we be?"

"You don't know how I would feel," she answered tersely, trying to pull away, but he held her hands fast against his chest.

"You sat on that bench chastising me for a life of secrets and now you want me to live more. It's got to end at some point, Ruth."

"If the CIA take you away, I don't see it ending well."

"I meant what I said in the car. When this is all over, I'm leaving the Service, but I want to go out on my terms. Not in disgrace. Thirty years deserves more than a place as a cautionary footnote of an agent gone rogue."

"You're assuming that they're going to play fair, that there will be a trial and you'll be exonerated."

"That's why you need to find out who killed Coaver. That's how you can help me."

She nodded but he was not fooled. It was her modus operandi, agreeing with him, giving him a false sense of victory only to come out with a contradictory sentiment. He took her chin in his hand, turning her face to meet his and looked directly into her eyes.

"You gave up your life for me once before; don't do it again."

Closing her eyes, she pulled her head away. Oh well, he thought, she was her own woman. He had lost any governance over her actions when he had let her walk off the Grid and into the Home Office. As a sign of partial surrender, she laid her head against his chest and he felt her sigh as he stroked her hair. She was younger that he, she could still have a life. He was broken and spent, it was his time.

"I'm going to be late," she spoke into his shirt. She placed both of her hands against his chest and gently pushed herself away. "If I go in now I can see if the extradition is going forward, find a legal loophole, something..."

She turned away towards the door, her mind already working on scenarios.

"Yes, you do that." He held onto her hand, letting her fingers trail out of his grasp as she walked away.

As she passed the bed she picked up the leather pouch and crossed over to the door. She paused and turned around.

"We don't have to say goodbye yet, do we?"

He looked at her framed in the doorway, closing his eyes to imprint the picture on his mind. "Not yet."

"But if we have to? If they take you...there might be people watching, listening...this might be the only time for us-"

In three quick steps, he strode over to her and placed his hands around her waist, reeling her into him. Their lips found each other with no searching, her arms fit perfectly in place, she fit perfectly in place. He inhaled her, tasted her, committed everything about the moment to memory.

She pulled away from him and kept her head down, quickly turning and bolting from the room. He could hear her boots tapping as she moved down the stairs.

The front door closed, the bang echoing throughout the empty house. He moved to the window, careful to stay out of view. Not that it mattered. If they were observing the house, they would know that she had spent the night. He watched as she walked away, her small form retreating in the distance. She had forgotten her coat, he realised. She would be cold. He wanted to bolt down the stairs and run after her with it, calling her name, if only to kiss her one last time. She would have no one to protect her. Stubborn woman.

A loud ring pierced the quiet of the house and his head turned sharply. It was the downstairs phone. He looked at his mobile lying on the dresser, silent, unmoving. He had shut it off the evening before. The muffled voice of Towers sounded from the answering machine. That did not bode well. A great weight settled on his chest and he found it difficult to breathe.

...

The river flowed from blue to green, to black, one clear now murky, but still continuing on. It lapped against the bank, ebbing back out, paying no heed to the passage of time or the woman who stood on its shore. The whirr of traffic hummed in the background and life carried on. No one cared. No one knew about the broken lives of people who disappeared into the shadows to protect them.

She couldn't breathe. With great effort, she inhaled and choked out a ragged sob.

She had unwrapped her secret about the house, hoping he would be able to understand that she had come full circle in her thinking. That she wanted more. He had stoically urged her to continue on and with one last soft kiss, walked away.

Bastard.

Where was his eleventh-hour plan, his get out clause, that strategic piece of information that would cause everything to fall into place?

She swallowed, letting the tears trickle down the back of her throat, watering a seed of anger that lay deep within her. She clenched her hands, squeezing her eyes tight, feeling the anger rise within her. He had given up, walked away, surrendered to an unseen opponent. Knocked off the board in one final move. All the pieces he had sacrificed; Ros, Jo, Tariq, even Lucas' betrayal, her own departure. Who remained to fight with him? No wonder the Russians had wreaked so much damage, emotionally compromising him, damaging his trust, compelling him to commit reckless acts as a last resort. She was furious that he had exposed the chinks in his armour, feet made of clay, for being vulnerable, for being utterly human. She needed him to be Harry Pearce, full of bluster and bravado, bowing to no one, ready to fight the good fight no matter what. She needed him to be the man she had fallen in love with. She raised her hand to her lips and another sob escaped.

A presence hovered near her elbow and she quickly brushed away a tear. It was Towers.

"I know this has all been very difficult for you, Ruth. I'm sorry I couldn't do more."

Ever the politician, he was always ready with a pat word for any occasion. She knew that he was glad to be rid of Harry. He had let slip in front of her how he thought the man had become a loose cannon and frankly wasn't sure how many more times he could go to the mat for him, that he had played all his cards with the Albany fiasco. Well aware that he was standing in acute discomfort, she did nothing to alleviate his unease. Let him stand there and wait. He knew nothing of them, of what they had given up. All that mattered was that he had his intelligence liaison. She looked sideways at Towers. Could she trust this man? He was a politician after all. She cleared her throat.

"I think I might need a bit of time to gather myself."

"About that, we do have a partnership agreement chugging along with kinks that need to be ironed out."

She gave him a hardened look and Towers took a step back, shifting his feet in the sand.

"I've left a revised copy on Margot's desk with my concerns and possible solutions."

He nodded. "I'll free you up for the afternoon then. You can still be reached?" he asked. She nodded. "Good. Do you need a lift anywhere?"

"No thank you."

Shuffling from one foot to the other, still not sure who was in charge and who had dismissed who, Towers turned and headed towards his car.

As she waited for him to leave, she looked back out over the winding river. The wind played with her hair, gentle, teasing, as indifferent to her state as the river. She inhaled a long, slow breath. She was alone. It was all up to her.

...

The taxi slowed down and she quickly stepped out. Keep your head down, find an opportunity, and make a move. She could hear Harry's voice in her head, words from every briefing, every operation. She had changed taxis twice; the third one dropping her off five blocks before her destination. As she walked towards the address she had memorised, she could feel a prickling sensation on the back of her neck.

Don't look back, you're always being followed.

The neighbourhood was a jumble of buildings covered in gang tags, old factories with boarded up windows, remnants of takeout meals strewn on the ground, the smell of petrol and rot. She pressed her elbows against her sides, securing the package under her coat, jamming her hands deeper into the pockets of her grey coat. She hated that coat. It reminded her of George and Nico and a loss that had hollowed out her heart.

Don't look back.

As she hurried past the dark, yawning lanes between the buildings, her thoughts turned to the night in the alley where she had met Harry. She closed her eyes, remembering the kiss, and without any effort, her mind slid to thoughts of his house, his bedroom, the faint trace of him lingering on her skin. Stop it, she ordered herself, stay focused.

Rounding the corner, she recognised a familiar silhouette; a man wearing a flat cap and grey Mac. She ran up to him, breathless.

"Hello, Malcolm."

She touched his arm lightly and he smiled at her in his quiet way. What she really wanted to do was hug him, sob into his chest and ask him to make everything better. Tell her that the past few days, weeks, even years had been nothing more than a bad dream and that she would wake up to the time when he was still on the Grid. He put his hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. The small gesture was all the strength she needed.

"You found the place all right," he asked.

She nodded. "What about CCTV?"

"A neighbourhood that takes privacy into their own hands." He gestured up to a camera dangling from a lamppost.

For the first time in her career, she was thankful the there were no eyes.

Malcolm turned towards the door, his fingers moving to open a rusty padlock. He motioned for her to enter before him and she stepped tentatively inside. The interior of the building was dark, the ceiling low, the smell of decay permeating its walls. They trod on a wooden floor, pockmarked by time. In the dim light, Ruth could see to one side a long wooden counter, dotted with crumbling iron bars. Tellers' cages she surmised.

"Was this a bank, Malcolm?"

"Stanford, Harcourt and Smith. Money lenders I believe. Colin and I..." he paused for a moment.

Ruth stopped in the middle of the derelict building, and waited, inhabiting the memory with Malcolm. She had not thought of Colin in a long time, he belonged to her other life. The fate of a desk spook was assured, danger to their persons minimal, not like field operatives. A wave of sadness washed over her and she thought of Tariq. There had not been time to mourn him, his death was a blip in an operation spinning out of control. He deserved more.

"They killed a friend of mine. Tariq. A boy, really." She swayed toward Malcolm, her shoulder gently grazing his as they stood side by side. "Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one left."

"I'm glad you came to me," he said, looking down at her with a wistful smile.

"I was very sad that you weren't on the Grid when I came back."

"I couldn't do it anymore. The hardening of one's soul. I was afraid there would come a day when it wouldn't spring back."

She nodded, understanding his words. A part of her soul had frosted over and she also wondered if it would ever thaw. She had come a long way since she had first stepped on the Grid and the direction she had taken did not always please her. Those thoughts were for another day. She collected herself and they walked on towards the back of the building.

"After the Eerie exercise," Malcolm continued, "we decided we needed to be better prepared. And I'm glad we did. When Lucas showed up about the Albany business, I had to pick up and leave. I don't know what I would have done with all my equipment if I hadn't had this secure location. We snagged this property for a song as the neighbourhood as gone to rack and ruin. And it has this."

They stopped in front of a large steel door, the purpose of which dawned on Ruth.

"It's a walk in safe!"

"Precisely." Malcolm keyed a code into a surprisingly modern looking number pad. "Hoodlums can vandalise the rest of the building, but they can't touch what's in here."

The door opened, revealing a room that stretched across the back half of the building. The air hummed with a chorus of circuitry, illuminated by the glow of screens. Ruth walked in, slightly dazed as if she had entered a cyber wonderland. She stepped around, looking at the equipment, reverently touching items, assuring herself of their reality. Monitors sat on tables busily streaming feeds, scrolling through data, and behind that, shelves full of gadgetry.

"This is fantastic, Malcolm!"

"Of course, none of this is from the grid," he clarified a rather sheepish look on his face.

She gave Malcolm a knowing look. "Of course."

"Colin and I would come here and modify devices. It's amazing what you can find on eBay. I just carried on after he..."

Ruth touched his arm, needing to feel him and know that she was not alone.

"We're all pawns aren't we?"

"All but Harry. He's a knight." Malcolm smiled at his own joke. Looking up towards the ceiling, he was struck by another thought. "He is rather like the chess piece. Valuable in closed positions and full of unpredictable moves."

"That's the secret, isn't it? We have to play the game the way Harry would."

Malcolm pulled a chair out for Ruth and she sat down. He took up his position in front of a monitor, clicking through screens, windows displaying surveillance of the building. He turned back around to her and rolled his seat a little closer.

"Right then. How did he get himself into this mess?"

"It started with a woman-"

"Ah, doesn't it always with Harry," Malcolm responded.

Ruth looked away, her fingers wandering over to what looked like a Coms device, pretending to be absorbed in a gadget. She would not let Malcolm see that his remark had hit perilously close to home, although she sensed by the clearing of his throat and the straightening of his posture that he had realised the indelicacy of his comment.

"What about the murder of the CIA chap, how did that happen?" he asked, attempting to bring the conversation to safer ground.

"Jim Coaver. Harry kidnapped him, but he didn't kill him."

"Good lord, not again."

"What do you mean 'again'?" Ruth looked at him, perplexed. "Has this happened before?"

"Bob Hogan. But that was a national emergency. When you were away."

"See what happens when I'm not there to talk sense into him."

The corner of Malcolm's mouth tipped up at the obviousness of her remark. "You always had a particular sway over Harry." His brow furrowed. "Why weren't you there?"

"I've moved to the Home Office."

Malcolm sat back, and gave Ruth an odd look, his mouth hanging slightly opened as he processed the information. "Harry let you go?"

"He'd thought I'd be safer."

"Do you think," he said, holding his finger against his chin as he worked through his thoughts, "that someone wanted to get you away from Harry?"

Ruth opened her mouth, but no words came out. It would explain the feeling of unease cloaking the past weeks. She thought back to her dinner with Towers, his comments about her stifled potential, of being locked into a relationship, Harry's tentacles, subtly exposing her vulnerability, his words feeding her woefully undernourished ego.

"He said the power map is being redrawn," she murmured, more to herself than to Malcolm. He looked at her quizzically.

"I don't know," she continued with their conversation. "Ever since the Russian delegation arrived, nothing has felt right. For one thing, this extradition played alarmingly fast. His rights were completely trampled; there was no review court, no opportunity to challenge it."

"Is there a different law for spies?" asked Malcolm.

"No. Only for the rich." Ruth gave him a half smile. "They kept the fact that Gavrik was in the country away from us, the Security Services. Someone knew all of Harry's codes and they were able to break the encrypted files on level A assets in a matter of hours. It doesn't add up. There's something bigger going on here. We've both been around long enough to know the smell of political interference."

"A mole?"

"To what end? All I know is that there's an unseen hand playing us. We thought it was Coaver."

"Hence the kidnapping."

"Harry's a big fish, Malcolm; big fish are hard to catch because they don't take the bait."

"Unless you make the bait irresistible," Malcolm added, "like a CIA operative."

"Or an old lover and a long lost son." Malcolm blinked at the revelation but she chose to carry on. Malcolm had known Harry longer than she; surely nothing about the man could surprise him."At this point, we're already three moves behind."

"What do you propose we do?"

Ruth extracted the black pouch out from underneath her coat. She unzipped it and pulled out the passports. "New identities. These bank accounts need to be redistributed. These flash drives encrypted and stored securely. And plane tickets."

Malcolm glanced through the documents. "That should be easy enough." His attention caught by the names on the passports, he raised an eyebrow, looking at Ruth.

She shrugged her shoulders. "It was so I could access the funds as his widow." She pulled another paper from the pouch; the edges folded and creased from many handlings. She looked at the picture for a moment and then cleared her throat. "I need you to outbid me on this house.

Malcolm studied the picture but refrained from asking any questions, choosing only to nod his head. "Is that it?"

"We need to find out who is behind Coaver's murder and get Harry out from the clutches of the CIA before they get him out of the country."

He gestured to the paraphernalia around the room. "We do have all this, but we are, after all, only desk spooks, we can't take on the CIA."

Ruth suppressed the urge to tell him that she had killed a French assassin but decided it was best for him to remember the gentle Ruth he knew before she left.

"We were more than paper pushers. They still speak your name with reverence at Thames house."

He blushed at her joking flattery. She slipped the small leather bound book from out of the pouch and placed it on the desk between them. She ran her fingers over the cover and looked at him with a smile.

"And we do have a few old friends we can call on."

 _TBC_


	4. Chapter 3

All politicians promise to build bridges where there are no rivers. Ruth searched her memory for the author of that sentiment. Khrushchev, she decided, recognising the irony of her conclusion. The sound of polite applause broke through her thoughts and a flurry of activity claimed her attention. The Press Room was crowded and close, and she was thankful she had found sanctuary near the back. Photographers rose from their seats, encroaching on the aisles, a forest of hands shot up into the air as reporters vied for questions. Towers preened with a look of smug satisfaction on his face, while Gavrik smiled, or what passed for a smile from the Russian, politicians doing what they do best; congratulating themselves. Hollow words from hollow men, saying everything and nothing. The world of Whitehall was no less murky a duplicitous than that of Thames House.

The wood panelling was unyielding against her back as she leant into it, hoping she could somehow fade into the veneer. She was exhausted. Last night after work, she had returned to Malcolm's lair, where they had bounced ideas off one another, plotting, feeling wonderfully like old times. She closed her eyes and suppressed a yawn, wondering if anyone would notice if she left. Of course, she couldn't, her absence would draw suspicion. Soon it would be over, one way or the other. She surreptitiously glanced down at her phone. Nothing. Hoping that was a good sign, she bit her lip and raised her gaze, her eyes spotting the familiar head of carmine coloured hair weaving towards her. Much to Ruth's dismay, the woman came to a stop beside her and then turned to look out over the crowded room.

"Where is Harry?" asked Elena, a calculated note of indifference to her voice.

Ruth looked at the woman, unable to read her face, wondering if the Russian's words held a trap. "On his way to America, I should think."

Elena's eyes skimmed the room. "Such a shame, the incident with James Coaver." Her tone was casual as if they were talking about the weather rather than the incarceration of an ex-lover. "But Harry was always impetuous. Men of passion usually are."

It took all of Ruth's self-control not to walk away from the whole charade. She mustered a smile and what she hoped was a look of congeniality. "Do you require assistance with anything, Mrs Gavrik?"

"Always thinking of others, aren't you Ruth? We must be careful not sacrifice too much of ourselves for others."

Ruth looked out over the crowd. There was no way Elena could have any idea what was happening. Or could she?

"Will we see you tonight?" Elena asked. "Ilya hates the ballet, but I love it."

Ruth glanced sideways at the woman; lithe, elegant, impeccably dressed, a veritable ballerina compared to her own understated demeanour. "I'm sure to be working in some capacity."

"It is one of my favourites. Giselle - such a tragic story. Betrayed by a man, only to die of a broken heart. But we do not die, do we? We must live with our broken hearts. And unlike ballet, there is no Second Act to take revenge on those who betrayed us. Ah, there is Ilya, I must go to him."

Ruth watched as the older woman walked away. She expelled a long breath, realising that she had been holding it during Elena's speech. What more could she have gained besides one last twist of the knife? Double agent, double meaning. The Russian's words echoed in Ruth's head, like the taunt of player who gloats over their win before the game is done. Broken hearts and revenge. She stored the information in the back of her mind and looked about the crowd for Towers. Seeing him across the room, she moved to walk towards him. A voice spoke, near her shoulder and alarmingly close to her ear.

"So lovely to see you again, Miss Evershed."

Ruth froze. Her heart stopped in her throat. That voice. It couldn't be. She slowly turned around, her eyes landing on the last person she ever expected, indeed ever wanted to see in her lifetime.

"Mr Mace," she said quietly, a stomach churning disbelief washing over her.

"You look like you've seen a ghost." He raised an eyebrow, speaking in his familiar laconic manner; his smile failing to reach is eyes. "I know I have."

He was older and thinner but his repulsive aura had not changed. Her heart started again at ten times the normal speed. She swayed as she felt the floor shift beneath her feet, the walls moving in closer, a cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. She schooled her face to remain neutral. She had seen Harry do it enough times - she needed only to relax her mouth muscles, keep her eyes unblinking.

"I heard that you had retired," she replied in a voice she hoped did not belie her panic.

"Ah, yes. If only that were true," he said, his eyes running over Ruth as if she were an object in his path. "But we both know the fate of disgraced public servants. The Diplomatic corps."

Ruth looked away, her stomach roiling. She felt exposed and defenceless. This is what Harry had meant by fighting one foe only to turn around and find another, this one ostensibly on their side. Mace watched her as if he were reading her thoughts, the corners of his mouth turning faintly upward, taking pleasure in her discomfort. The air between them was thick, fraught with an undercurrent of bile. Ruth had no idea whether to stay or flee. Luckily, Towers appeared, dissipating the tension.

"Thank goodness that piece of pageantry is over." He saw that Ruth was not alone. "Ah, Oliver, wonderful to see you. Have you met Miss Evershed?

"Yes, we're old acquaintances," Mace responded.

"Good. Excellent. Ruth is my Security Adviser so you're bound to be in close contact." Towers turned to Ruth. "Oliver is going to oversee Section D until we figure out what to do with it."

"What do you mean?" Ruth sputtered, trying to keep the edge of alarm from her voice. "Erin proved a very capable Section Head in Harry's absence."

"This is more than an absence, Ruth, he's gone. After everything that has happened, there is going to be a complete restructuring. More governmental oversight. We allowed Harry to enforce his own agenda for far too long. And look where that's gotten us."

"Yes, Harry has broken too many toys. We must make sure to take care of the ones that are left." Mace looked at Ruth, a thin smile stretching across his lizard-like countenance.

The effort to stay calm was becoming increasingly difficult. She was certain she had planned for every contingency, but she could never have anticipated this one. Her mind raced on. Somewhere, intelligence had been lost and this man's movements had flown under the radar. What was the connection? Why had Mace resurfaced the moment Harry was out of the picture?

"Shall we head back?" asked Towers. "Right the ship, as it were."

Towers and Mace turned and walked away, leaving Ruth to stand in stunned silence. She gathered her wits and found her phone; her fingers trembled, searching for a contact. From force of habit, she had pulled up Harry's number. She looked down at the icon and for the first time, the implication sank in that he was not at the other end of that line. She was in this alone. She couldn't help but feel hived off from the Section expressly for that purpose. She rallied her thoughts, inputting the number she knew she could trust. Leaning her head against the polished panels of the wall, she shielded her conversation from view.

"I need you to find out where Oliver Mace has been over the past two years." She closed her eyes, listening to Malcolm's reaction as he mirrored her own dismay and disgust. "Yes, I know. I just ran into him." Ruth paused, listening to Malcolm's outrage. "He's taking over the Section. Harry's gone, Mace is back. There are no coincidences in this business."

She rang off and held the phone against her chest, feeling the beat of her still pounding heart. Instead of her earlier sense of impending freedom, she felt shackled by this new chain of events. She struggled between two minds, contemplating what she should do. It would be disastrous if Harry got wind of this development and it would be equally disastrous if she did nothing about it.

...

Dark, airless, cramped. For one brief moment, Harry panicked, although he would never admit it. He focused on his breathing, inhaling deeply, letting it out in a slow release, the initial dread of the confined space dissipating with each exhale. He had come to find himself in the boot of a car. Again. Having experienced this too many times to count, he focused his attention on reining in his thoughts, that being the one thing he could control.

They had taken his tie and his belt but left him with his shoelaces. They had searched him for tracking devices but had not looked at his fillings. His were hands tied in the front instead of behind. He had been taken in by rank amateurs. With this realization, the seed that Ruth had planted in his mind germinated and grew to the forefront of his consciousness. What had he accomplished by handing himself over to people? Had he saved the nation? Averted catastrophe? Was he working on some misguided notion, meting out his own penance for all the times he had taken justice into his hands, after Adam, after Ros.

Shit.

He kicked at the door of the boot in frustration, only to be met with a shooting pain radiating through his heel and up his calf. His knee ached and the muscle in his calf twitched. He flexed his jaw where he had been hit, still feeling a dull throb. He was getting too old for this. He should be gardening, or golfing, or...

He lost hold of his thoughts and let them wander to Ruth – her lips, her skin, her breasts. He bit the inside of his cheek. She had once told him she didn't deserve a relationship, didn't deserve happiness after what she had done. At the time, he couldn't understand why she would deny herself the comfort, turn her back on them and now he realised that he was doing exactly the same thing. Damn. When had he become so bloody self-reflective? It had started with her. It always came back to her. He was overcome by a sense of dread as he realised the most heinous torture they could devise would be to leave him alone in a room with his thoughts.

A wave of nausea rolled over him as the car jostled about and he concluded they were no longer on the main motorway. He felt the engine change gears as the car slowed down and rolled to a stop. They were in the middle of nowhere. What the hell was going on? The bottom dropped out of his stomach as he contemplated what he would do with a hostile operative if he were far enough away from civilization. The car rocked as doors slammed shut. Faint voices, one of them a woman's. For a moment, he dared to think it was Ruth, but then he heard the accent. American.

"We've got an order transferring him to our custody." It was the woman.

"I'm going to have to call this in."

"You can try, there's no reception. Unless you're on the friends and family plan."

"Why are we doing the handoff out here?"

"You think the British Government is going to let their Head of Counter Terrorism go without a fight?" the woman asked. "They give him to us, it makes it look good politically, and then they steal him back."

Harry was unable to hear the man's rebuttal, the agent's voice diminished against the authority of the woman.

The woman spoke again. "Did you check him for trackers?"

"Yeah."

Harry smiled to himself. Liar.

"We've got Intel that they've set up an ambush further along this route. Orders are, we take him and you carry on as a decoy. Look, just hand him over and make your life easier."

There was no answer. As the silence stretched on, Harry's mind spun in circles trying to figure out what was transpiring. He heard the latch unlock and braced himself as the door of the boot opened wide. He squinted into the harsh sunlight, unable to see the faces that stood over him.

"You locked him in the trunk?" the woman drawled. "Classy,"

"He killed a Deputy Director," retorted the agent.

"Look at him. He's an old man."

Harry gave an internal wince.

With a great deal of stiffness, he half climbed, half fell out of the back of the car. An arm reached out to support him. He looked up and into the face of a rather attractive looking blonde woman with intense blue eyes. The eyes looked back at him, cool, unflinching. Good God, it was Christine Dale. Harry made sure the recognition didn't read on his face. He didn't know if this was a good thing or a bad thing as far as developments were concerned. He looked past her and saw a black sedan idling near a clump of trees.

The young agent addressed Christine. "Is it just the two of you?"

Levelling her gaze at the agent, she replied, "Unlike some people, I don't need back up."

Harry suppressed a smile. He had always admired this woman's brashness.

She grabbed Harry's arm and ushered him over to the waiting car. He stumbled, his knee buckling from use after the cramped interior of the boot, no doubt emphasising the fact that he was, indeed, an old man. Her grip tightened on his arm. They reached the car and she opened the door, unceremoniously shoving him into the back seat. She settled herself in the front seat and the car kicked into gear before she had the door fully closed.

Harry sat back, closing his eyes, letting his weary bones sink into the softness of the interior. "Miss Dale, I didn't know you were back working for Uncle Sam."

"She's not. She's working for me."

That voice. He thought he would never hear it again. His eyes flew open. He met the speakers gaze in the rear-view mirror and then exhaled what must have been the most thankful sigh of his life. "Tom. Thank God, it's you." Harry took a moment to collect his breath. "This is all Ruth's doing, isn't it?"

Tom smiled enigmatically. "I'm not at liberty to discuss my employer."

"Employer? Is she paying you for this? I didn't know you were a mercenary."

"I'm a businessman, Harry."

"Where are we going?"

"That's classified." Tom glanced at Harry in the mirror. He saw the older man narrow his eyes and purse his lips. "Hard isn't it? Not being the one in charge."

Harry let the question hang unanswered, acutely aware that over the past forty-eight hours he had not made one decision concerning his own well fair, and yes it was it was bloody annoying. For the time being it did not matter, he had escaped the jaws of American justice and for that he was thankful. He sat back looking at the profile of his former agent.

"You have been sorely missed, Tom."

"I missed you too, Harry. Once I stopped hating you."

Christine spoke as she pulled out her mobile. "I don't know about those new agents. They didn't even try to get a signal."

She keyed in the numbers and made a call, speaking into the phone. "It's me. Yep, it's done."

Harry attention turned to the phone conversation. "Is that Ruth? Let me speak to her. Give it to me." He stretched forward, attempting to reach through the space between the front seats to grab the phone, his movements hampered by his bound hands. "Blasted things!" he muttered.

Christine swatted him away with her free hand. "Yes, she's one her way. Will do. Bye." She gave Harry one last push into the back seat and looked over at Tom. "Jeez, was he this demanding when you worked for him?"

She reached into the glove box and pulled out a small grey device. Opening the back of her phone she took out the SIM card and placed it in the device, and waited while the machine shredded it. She smiled, looking back at Harry. "Whatever did you do before SIM cards and burner phones?"

"Smoke signals," Harry replied dryly.

Tom stepped on the gas, causing Harry to fall back into his seat and the car sped off into the unknown.

...

The pile of paper on the edge of his desk grew taller each time he turned away. Callum gave the stack an angry look. Apparently, someone had not received the memo that they were now a paperless society. Feeling as if he were the only one left on the Grid, he ran his hands over his tired face. At this rate, he would not see the light of day until next Tuesday. The thought made his already aching head even heavier.

He missed Ruth. He missed her calming presence and quiet efficiency, but more importantly, her wealth of intellectual capital. The woman knew everything. He was every bit as capable as she was of collating the threat assessments; he just wasn't as proficient. He had concluded that her ability to do the job had bordered on the supernatural.

He turned to his computer, hoping to find solace in the world of electrical data, but it only served to remind him how much he missed Tariq. He still regretted his flippant treatment of the young techie and even though he had tracked down the party responsible for his death, he felt he had not done enough.

His eyes hovered on the screen, his attention caught by a line.

"Hello, what have we here," he murmured to himself.

He hit the print button, feeling a certain satisfaction in adding his own contribution to the growing mound paper waste and fired off an email request to one of the junior analysts. He would have to run this information by Erin. He looked up to see the woman in question talking on the phone in Harry's office. When they had arrived from Six, the glass office had suited her, but now when he looked at it, he only saw it as Harry's domain. He could see her shoulders tensing, rising up to her ears, hear her voice through the glass, sharp and loud. Callum rubbed his forehead and reached towards his drawer, pulling out a small plastic bottle. He shook it and realised it was empty. There wasn't enough medication in the world to ease his slowly evolving headache.

He heard the click of Erin's heels as she walked towards him.

"He's gone!"

"Who?"

"Harry."

"What?" Callum looked at Erin as if she had sprung two heads.

"The CIA lost him. They handed him off to a man and a woman claiming to be American agents. And they're blaming us."

"I'd like to point out that if we were looking after him we wouldn't have lost him."

Erin closed her eyes and inhaled a long breath in an effort not to take her anger out on Callum. "No, I mean they think we staged the ambush."

"My American accent is rubbish."

"Callum this is serious."

"I say good for Harry. Sly old dog."

"Towers and the DG want us to find him. Not to mention the Americans."

"If we find him do we get to keep him?"

Erin glared at him. "I told Towers that we were stretched to the limit as it is. He would have to choose between us finding Harry or using our resources on increased security at the Gala this evening. After the bombing incident the other day, he chose security."

"Good choice."

The phone rang and Callum jumped at the sound. He picked up the receiver without looking at the display. "Ruth!" he said, surprised. He looked at Erin and pointed at the phone, mouthing, "It's Ruth."

"Ask her if she knows where Harry is."

Callum stopped for a moment to look at Erin, silently shaking his head in disbelief. Did she really think Ruth was going to rat out Harry? Surely, she must have noticed that those two had some sort of spy love affair going on, so secret that at times neither Harry nor Ruth even knew about it. Then again, Ruth did squeal to Towers about the kidnapping, but only after she had pulled rank on him. He returned to listening to the voice on the other end. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Erin.

"She wants me at the Home Office to vet the invitees for the Gala."

"You can do that here," Erin countered as she sat on the edge of his desk, rubbing her temple with her hand.

Callum was sorry he had no medication to offer her. He returned his attention to the phone, once again listening and relaying the conversation back to Erin. "Ruth says she wants to do a walkthrough of the theatre."

"Why? She's the Security Adviser, she suppose to leave the legwork to us."

Callum shrugged his shoulders.

"Fine, since you were tasked to do that anyway."

"Mom says I can come out and play," he told Ruth. He paused and kept his eyes down as he listened to another request. This time, he did not explain it to Erin. "Okay," he acquiesced, feeling at this point he could not refuse Ruth anything. He hung up the phone.

"I'll send Dimitri over when he's done," Erin said.

"Where is he?"

"He to me he had to deliver a package."

They suspended their conversation when a junior analyst walked up to the desk holding a piece of paper out for Callum. He took the paper from the young woman's hand, making sure to give her a smile though he couldn't remember her name. He would have to rectify that. With skeleton staff, he needed all the help he could get. He glanced down at the sheet. "Ah yes, this."

"What is it?" asked Erin.

"There's been some chatter. It seems that not everyone is as enamoured with the Russians as we are. Comments about selling out our sovereignty, isn't it bad enough our own government spies on us without sharing it with someone else, and this." He turned to the computer and pulled up a website. "A call for a demonstration at the Gala this evening, protesting Russia's aggression and the complicity of the West."

"Great, that's just what we need. We're going to have to pull resources from another section. Liaise with the Met. Find out how serious these people are. Let's hope they exercise their right to peaceful demonstration."

She took a step to leave but stopped and turned, narrowing her eyes at Callum. "Check in with me when you're done with Ruth, I want to know what she's up to."

"What do you mean?"

"Someone was behind Harry's escape."

"Not Ruth!"

"She broke into the American Embassy," Erin pointed out.

"To be fair she didn't break in, she was there on business and happened to get lost. In the Archives."

Erin massaged her temple. "At this point is there any law we haven't broken?" She expelled a long breath. "I need you back here as soon as possible with your assessment of the theatre. They're sending over someone from the brass to realign our priorities. I'm going up to the DG now."

"Yes, ma'am."

Callum watched as Erin walked away. Opening up a file, he pretended to be engrossed in its contents, covertly watching to see if Erin had gone back to Harry's office. Instead of going into the office, she walked towards the pods and headed out. He closed the file folder and took a deep breath. Nodding to himself, he rose from his chair, deciding to take the folder along with him as a cover. He thought his best bet was to walk straight into Harry's office as if he had every right to be there. He quickly entered the office and crossed over to the white safe sitting on the far side of Harry's desk. For some reason, he felt more nervous than if he had been breaking into a corporate office, his senses heightened, certain that at any moment Harry was going to walk in and chew him out. He took another deep breath. Remembering the combination Ruth had given him, he punched the numbers into the keypad. Thankfully, it opened without activating any bells or sirens. He rifled through the contents and found what he was looking for, placing the small document inside his jacket. He fished his phone from his pocket.

"Yes, I've got it. I'll be right there."

He headed towards the pods, whistling, a spring in his step, his headache having completely disappeared.


	5. Chapter 4

_A/N - Thank you for continuing to read and for your kind reviews. They are very much appreciated!_

* * *

It was the same sun that shone all over the world, but this was not her sun. Her sun was not fickle in temperament; it shone with a willingness to warm the entire year. This sun gave only recalcitrant rays, preferring to hide behind clouds, but she still wore her sunglasses, a habit born out of necessity and paranoia. Her black coat hung open, a large bag slung casually over her shoulder, her long dark hair swaying as she walked. Though she tried her best to blend in with the crowd of office workers, she garnered an admiring glance from a passing man. Oh well, she thought, it would never do to be too bland. The secret was to walk at the right speed, so the cameras would not pick you up. She knew the location of all the eyes, aware that at any moment, a car could pull up beside her and spirit her away. The fear of detection had lessened over the years and now she walked with a greater confidence, knowing that in the interim they have forgotten about her, that there were far greater fish to catch than a minnow like her. There were moments when she saw a van, her steps would freeze and she would quickly change her direction. She would catch her reflection in the window, and wonder who was looking back at her, for there were still times when the dark hair still caught her off guard, especially in London, the city where she had been someone else.

A tall tower of steel and concrete loomed before and she slowed down, the glass door revolving on its own internal mechanism, pulling her into the building. She did not stop at the directory but walked purposefully towards the lift, and, as if sensing her resolve, the door opened as she stopped before it.

No one joined her in the lift and she let her mind reflect on their last encounter; a crowded sidewalk, when she had been a young woman, out to prove she could play with the big kids. A taunt about needing to have the last word, and she was left flustered and speechless. A small smile played upon her lips. Who would have the last word now?

She walked off the lift and into a silent corridor, passing the doors of consultants and accountants until she arrived at her destination. Walking into a small foyer, she smiled at the receptionist who sat behind a modern looking counter of wood and chrome. Not bothering to take off her sunglasses, she smiled in greeting.

"Good afternoon, I'm Ms. Phillips' one o'clock."

"Of course," the receptionist answered as she rose from her seat. "If you'll follow me." She led the way to an inner door, opening it with her manicured hand.

Entering the office, her eyes immediately fell on the woman sitting behind the desk. She stood in the middle of the room, taking a moment to assess the changes. A little older (weren't they all), more angles but still possessing the same air of brittle intimidation. The woman looked up at her with a smile of polite anticipation, no hint of recognition. She removed her sunglasses and the woman's look turned to that of dropped jaw of incredulity.

"Zoe?"

"It's Gina Hamilton," Zoe answered, walking towards the desk, confidently holding out her hand. "How have you been, Tessa?"

The older woman took Zoe's hand, her grasp lingering longer than was strictly necessary. "I thought they put you away," she commented, the arched tone of her voice concealing a question and a taunt rolled into one.

"Zoe Reynolds is serving at her Majesty's pleasure. If you want to discuss her, I suggest you contact Prison Services."

Tessa leaned back in her chair, sizing Zoe up, a sly smile on her face. Willing to play along with the charade for curiosity's sake, she motioned for Zoe to take a seat. "You used to have such lovely hair."

"You used to be respected. Times change."

The smile froze on Tessa's lips. "Indeed, they do." She busied herself rearranging the folders lying on her desk, taking a moment to regroup and reclaim control over the situation. Having created a neat pile, she spoke without looking up. "You're not here because of him are you?"

"Who," Zoe asked, innocently.

"Harry Pearce." Tessa gave Zoe a look, hard, unflinching, calculated to uncover any deceit.

Zoe met her gaze. In the past, that look would have caused her stomach to churn and her palms to sweat, but she had been through enough fire to match the likes of Tessa. She let out a huff. "No," she countered, "If you think I would ever do anything for that man after what they did to me, you are greatly mistaken."

The ice visibly melted from Tessa's demeanour. "So much potential. You were totally wasted on that tinpot Pearce."

"I couldn't agree more. You don't know how many times after that trial I wished I had taken your money and kept quiet about the ghost agents you were running."

The confession brought an even greater smile to Tessa's lips. "What can I do for you, Gina?" she asked, emphasising the name.

"My employer wishes me to find out the background on these people." Zoe reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a large manila envelope.

"And who would your employer be?"

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. Let's just say, my client has interests in military procurement.

Tessa nodded with approval. "Government or private?"

"Private sector. That's where the money is, isn't it? It's not as if the Public Service ever thanked us."

The women shared another knowing smile.

"Who are these people you need information on?" Tessa asked.

"Possible mercenaries."

"I'm shocked that you would think I would have information on mercenaries." Tessa took the envelope from Zoe's hand and pulled out three grainy pictures. "I prefer to call them independent contractors." She laid the pictures down on the desk and studied the faces. "Are these the only photos?"

"It not as though I have access to CCTV."

At the mention of CCTV, Tessa straightened up and dropped the pictures on her desk, sitting back once again and crossing her arms over her chest. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't quite trust your motives."

"There's only one thing you can trust, isn't there?" Zoe pulled a smaller envelope out of her purse. She laid it on the desk and slid it over Tessa. "The balance will be paid on receipt of the information."

Tessa took the envelope, looking inside, deftly counting the bills with a finesse that made Zoe's brow rise. She waited for Tessa to respond, remembering the older woman's penchant for drawn out silences, a bid to control the room. It was always about power. Finally, she responded.

"This seems satisfactory. How should a contact you?"

I'm on a deadline."

"Within a week?"

"Today."

A harsh laugh escaped from Tessa's mouth but she quickly sobered when she saw Zoe's expression. "You're serious."

Zoe sat back in her chair. "I thought you were the best?" She had done it, a question and a taunt rolled into one.

"I am."

"Then prove it."

...

It had taken Ruth mere hours into her job at the Home Office to realise that her government computer was nothing more than an expensive paperweight. To her frustration, all the back doors and codes that she had accessed through the Grid's system were now unavailable. She bristled knowing she could not research threats herself, that having moved up through the ranks, she was now dependent on others for information. It all added to the niggling thought that the purpose of her move was to keep her away from information, especially in the light of Mace's return. It did not stop her from deftly clicking through the files Erin had sent her regarding that evening's reception. Her eyes ran down the list and she quickly siphoned off names into columns - knowns, unknowns, and flags. She knew the Service, knew how they operated, and that the vetting was most likely thorough, but she needed to know for herself.

A figure moved in her peripheral vision. It was Towers, crossing from his office to her workstation.

"You have the itinerary?" he asked.

"Yes." Her eyes remained focused on her monitor. "Cocktails before the performance. Reception at intermission. And larger gathering post-show."

"I'll pick you up at seven then."

Ruth stopped, her attention now fully claimed by the man. "Excuse me?"

"You'll be attending tonight. It only makes sense. Professionally speaking."

"Of course."

She gave him a wane smile, her fingers gravitating towards her pen, her standard outlet for nervous thinking and conflict avoidance. As much as she had enjoyed her dinner with him, she couldn't help but remember the intimate atmosphere of the restaurant and the look on his face when he commented about not wanting to be a home wrecker. Ruth gave her head a shake. Surely, this man was not interested in her that way.

Towers moved closer, speaking in a confidential tone. "Then maybe you can tell me why you are so skittish around Mace."

Ruth looked at him. He was not a stupid man; he could not have reached one of the highest offices in the land without a modicum of awareness. Obviously, she had not hidden her reactions to Mace as well as she thought. She was marginally relieved that he had no ulterior motive except information gathering.

Towers turned towards the sound of approaching footsteps. "Ah Mace, wonderful. Shall we convene, go over the finer points of you take over."

At the words 'take over', Ruth's finger tightened on the pen. She looked down, not wanting to betray her thoughts, resisting the urge to impale Mace in the eye with the instrument in her hand. A mobile chirped and Towers retrieved his phone from his pocket, turning away to answer the call. He held up his hand to Mace, signalling for him to wait as he walked into his office for privacy. Ruth hastily dropped her pen; her fingers gravitated to her keyboard in an attempt to look absorbed in her work and avoid any further conversation with Mace. The ruse proved futile, as the man casually walked around to her side of the desk.

"Security Advisor, my, my. But then, you were always more than just an Analyst."

She did not look up as he leaned against the desk, his body encroaching on her personal space. At that moment, she would have given anything to be back on the Grid, to have it be Harry standing beside her instead of this odious man. With one hand, she motioned to her monitor.

"I'm very busy with tonight's reception ..." She let the sentence trail off, hoping he would take the hint.

"I'm sure you are. Nothing gets past you, does it?" His fingers found the pen on her desk and he picked it up, rolling it around in his fingers, examining it. "Such a valuable mind. We must make sure not to lose you again."

Ruth's eyes remained fixed on her monitor as she suppressed the urge to react to his allusions.

"The American's have their eyes on you," Mace continued.

"I'd expect nothing less," she responded, realising that her silence only served to empower the man.

"Not only regarding Harry. It seems that a CIA laptop has found its way into Russian hands."

Her breath stopped. How did he know? She was about to retort that she had not given away any secrets, that the laptop had been stolen from her, when she realised he was baiting her, waiting for her to incriminate herself. She swallowed. What would Harry do? He would come back with a pithy remark, cutting Mace off at the knees. She, on the other hand, could think of nothing, feeling as though she had jumped into a pool only to surface and realise that she was in the deep end. The silence hung between them and she knew he was watching her, waiting for her to stumble. The air around them grew heavy, she wanted desperately to walk away and breathe. One of his hands came to rest on her desk, his fingers splayed out like web, the other hand still holding her pen, gripped the back of her chair. He leaned down to her.

"Which do you think carries the higher penalty: helping a fugitive escape from the CIA or handing over secrets to the Russians?"

His face was uncomfortably close and she stared down at his hand, willing herself not to move a muscle but pulling back as far as she could internally. She could feel his breath on her cheek. She was a mouse sitting between the paws of a cat, waiting for that one final bite. He was playing with her, biding his time until the kill. Knowing Mace, this was part of his plan; remove Harry and leave her trapped in this purgatory where he could toy with her and she couldn't strike back.

"Tread carefully, Miss Evershed. Harry's not here to protect you this time."

Mace straightened up and backed away from her desk, his body language suddenly changing. Ruth looked up to see Callum walking through the door. Someone from the home team. She gave an inaudible sigh of relief. Towers chose that moment to re-enter from his office, alleviating Ruth's anxiety and she sat up, giving no indication that anything untoward had transpired. She motioned over to Callum.

"Home Secretary, you remember Callum Reid."

"Sir." Callum greeted Towers.

Towers sized the young man up and nodded at him. "Any news on Harry?"

Ruth intercepted the question. "Callum is here to assist with the vetting of the invitees. Then we're doing a sweep of the venue."

"Good. I feel much safer knowing that you're overseeing this side." He turned to Mace. "Nasty incident with a van the other day. Lost my driver, damn near lost my life."

"Such unfortunate lapses of security will be a thing of the past," Mace responded.

Callum gave Ruth a questioning look. She rose from her desk, giving an imperceptible shake of her head. She grabbed her mobile and looked up to see Towers observing her with a critical eye.

"Seven tonight." he reminded her.

"Yes, Home Secretary."

"And didn't we talk about you calling me William?"

Ruth nodded.

Towers turned to Mace. "Come into my office and we'll sink our teeth into this, shall we?" He moved off and into his office.

Before following the Home Secretary, Mace turned to Callum, speaking with a cordiality that hid the true nature of the man. "Keep your eye on Miss Evershed. She has been known to disappear." He moved to leave but stopped, turning to Ruth. "I almost forgot; here's your pen." He offered the pen up to her, retaining his hold on it even as she grasped it. "We wouldn't want to be accused of stealing now, would we?" He released the pen to her and walked away.

Callum gave Ruth a curious look. "What was that all about?"

"I'll tell you later," she answered, dropping the pen on the desk as if it were poisoned. "Let's go." She walked towards the outer door of the office, hurrying to distance herself from Mace and his calculated innuendo.

"I thought we were vetting," said Callum.

" Eventually," Ruth called back, leaving Callum to catch up as he followed her out the door.

...

The light of one dim bulb illuminated the corridor, the other fixtures having been broken or stolen. It gave an even sicklier hue to the green walls and green carpet. The smell of bygone meals permeated the air, adding nothing to the appeal of the building. Harry massaged his wrists as he walked behind Tom and Christine, their treads making faint sounds on the carpet. He could overhear bits of their conversation, family matters he thought, catching snippets referring to the girls. He felt a tinge of jealousy and imagined what his life could have been like if he had married someone inside the Service. Discussing mundane matters with his wife while on an op, what colour to paint the kitchen, who should pay the tax bill, instead of hiding behind the loneliness of a legend.

They stopped in front of the door, painted with the same green, Harry concluding that it must have been on sale in large quantities and that he would never paint his kitchen this colour.

"Are you going to be okay with him?" Christine asked Tom.

Tom nodded. "I just have to wait for the pickup."

She leaned into Tom, kissing him on the cheek. Harry slouched against the wall and looked away from them, his eyes travelling down the corridor. Christine stepped away from her husband and brushed past Harry.

"A pleasure as always, Ms. Dale," Harry quipped as she walked away.

"Stay out of trouble, Harry," she threw back over her shoulder as she moved down the hall.

Tom opened the door to the flat and motioned for Harry enter. As he stepped through, he looked around the flat. A fine layer of dust covered every surface, the sunlight through the lone window reflecting motes they had stirred with their presence. He gingerly touched a spring poking through a ratty plaid couch. The overall neglect of the place and lack of any garbage indicated that squatters or dealers had not used it. He turned and gave Tom a blank look.

"This is the safe house?"

"Sorry Harry, they were full up at Claridge's."

"It's not one of mine," Harry said more to himself than to Tom. "Is it Ruth's?"

"I have no idea."

A frown creased over Harry's face. He thought he had been clever, devising an exit strategy for her, when it turned out she had one of her own. Had she felt so unsafe, so insecure that she needed to have a get out clause in case something like Cotterdam ever happened again? A kernel of illogical rage formed in his stomach. He should have protected her; kept her from harm, but he knew that his protection only went so far; she had been used against more than once.

"Where is she?" Harry asked. "I thought she'd be here."

"Why?"

"This is her plan."

"The plan was to get you out. Why do you think she's joining you?"

Harry stopped and looked intently at Tom. He tried to read the other man's neutral expression, looking for meaning in the one raised brow. He couldn't figure out if his former agent was having him on, or if indeed, he really knew nothing. Apparently, he had schooled Tom all too well in the art of evasion. It would serve him right for the mind games he had played on Tom, exercises in the name of creating a better agent when in fact all they did was numb one's conscience. Harry shoulder's sagged. If Ruth was not there, what was happening? Harry was too busy lost in his thoughts to notice Tom leave the room and return with a large black duffle bag. The sound of the bag dropping onto the couch drew Harry's attention back to the present.

"This is for you," said Tom.

"What is it?" asked Harry.

"Clothes and a passport."

"What for?"

"To change into, I presume."

"No, the passport." Harry looked at him in exasperation. "Does she expect me to run?"

"You can keep asking me, but I really have no idea. You know that the players in successful ops only know their own role. That way there's no blowback."

"I told her I wasn't going to hide. That I was going to face this." Somehow, his anger at not being able to protect Ruth morphed into anger at the woman herself for thinking he would just slink away.

"As far as I could see, the only thing you were facing was a spare tyre in the boot of a car. Once the CIA had you in America, you would disappear. If they were taking you stateside."

The level of Harry's frustration grew exponentially with each passing minute. He hated being in the dark. The only thing he knew was that they had thwarted his original intent with the idea of shunting him off, rendering him helpless without the use of his own resources. He balled his fingers into a fist, his ire claiming Tom's attention.

"Believe it or not, I know how you feel," the younger man offered.

"You have no idea how I feel," Harry responded through gritted teeth.

"You decommissioned me in the middle of an op. I was the only one who knew what was right and I was hell bent on doing things my way. No thought to compromising the team or risking lives. If you can tell me that you're not operating from the same sense of myopic justice, then by all means walk out that door and turn yourself over."

Harry stood looking at Tom, his face a rigid mask, the flare of his nostril the telltale sign that he was trying to control his anger. He wanted to lash out at Tom, lash out at Ruth, both of them for taking the control out of his hands. Of course, he bloody well knew what was right; he was Harry Pearce for God's sake.

"Harry," Tom cautioned in a steady voice, "What will you accomplish in the hands of the CIA?" He looked at Harry, waiting for an answer. "The only way to get back control is to give it up."

Harry blinked as Tom's words sank through the indignation. He had to admit a begrudging pride in his former agent, that he had turned the argument around on the man who had sacked him. He had missed every section chief, but Tom was the one who saw right through him.

A knock on the door diverted Harry's attention.

"Who's that?"

Tom crossed to the door and looked through the peephole. "The babysitter." He pulled back the deadbolt and let a man in.

"Dimitri?" Harry turned to look incredulously at Tom. "He's the babysitter?"

Unruffled by the comment, Dimitri turned to Tom and held out his hand. "Dimitri Levendis."

Tom took the younger man's hand and shook it. "Tom. Tom Quinn."

"I've heard about you."

"All bad, I'm sure."

"I don't need a handler," Harry grumbled, "What I need is a drink."

He crossed to the small kitchenette and started rifling through the cupboards. Tuna, soup, beans; banging each can in protest. He opened one door and was surprised to see a bottle of single malt sitting on the shelf next to a tumbler. Maybe he wasn't so mad at Ruth after all.

"You know what to do?" Tom asked Dimitri. The young man nodded. "Right. Better watch out for him, he's tricky."

"I know." Dimitri gave Tom a crooked smile. "He gassed me to keep me off an op."

"He tried to stop me once. I shot him in the arm," Tom confessed. "The left one. So go for that side if you need to."

Harry stood looking down at his glass, swirling the liquid. "Gentlemen, I am in the same room."

"I'm leaving you in the care of Mr Levendis, Harry. I want to hear that you've behaved yourself because if I find out otherwise I'll have to tell my wife and trust me, you don't want that to happen."

With that, Tom strode to the door and exited, leaving Harry to silently curse him.

Dimitri gave his boss a crooked grin. "Looks like it's you and me."

Harry polished off the glass of scotch and walked over to the bag. The passport sat on top and he opened it to see his face looking back at him. Geoffrey Inness. Not one of his aliases. It wasn't the worst name he had to carry. He pulled out a black T-shirt, jeans, dark blue shirt, and a navy Anorak. All blacks and blue. He wondered if Ruth had picked out the clothes, for she never wore bright colours anymore. In the beginning, she had worn red. He remembered one top, the colour of raspberry sherbet. It wasn't particularly sexy or revealing, but it clung to her in all the right places, the scoop of the neckline showing a hint of cleavage. His eyes would wander down towards it as she spoke, her words becoming lost as he wondered what colour... he stopped his thoughts; best keep that distraction for another time. He noticed his kit bag and unzipped it to find a toothbrush and razor. He rubbed his chin and realised how gritty he felt after spending the night in the American holding cell. If nothing else, he would take advantage of the clothes and kit. Hopefully, this flat afforded hot water.

He looked over at Dimitri. "Where are we going?"

"That's on a need to know basis."

"Well, I need to know," retorted Harry.

"Sorry, I can't tell you."

Harry looked away and sighed. People don't love each other on a need to know basis. He couldn't help but feel she was trying to get back at him, withholding information. She would never do that; she was neither petty nor vengeful, that was his purview. He had told Ruth not to give up her life for him again, and perhaps, for once, she had listened. She was sending him off, releasing him to the world. His heart constricted at the thought that this time he would be the one sailing off on a barge while she remained behind a desk. No, she would not send him off, there must be something else. He decided to go along with this unknown plan. At this point, what did he have to lose?


	6. Chapter 5

A chip wrapper, spotted with grease, swirling in its own little tempest, floated across the street and landed on her shoe. Ruth looked down at it with annoyance and shook it off. She had no idea why she expected the neighbourhood to change overnight if anything it had become more derelict than when she had left it the day before. Perhaps it was because so much had happened to her in the intervening hours. Her fingers tapped impatiently on her phone, her mind calculating the time they had remaining. As she waited outside of Malcolm's lair, she turned to study the man standing beside her. Callum looked remarkably unperturbed by his surroundings, but then, it was that unflappable quality that made her conscript him.

"Have they brought on another Technical Officer?" she asked.

"That would be me," Callum responded.

"Analyst?"

"Me."

"Section Head?"

"I let Erin have that one. Didn't want to be greedy."

Ruth's lips curled in a slight smile. It had been such a long time since anyone on the Grid had displayed a sense of humour. Such a bright young man, he could go far if he learned to curb his sardonic streak. The Section was down three key members, plenty of opportunity for Mace to exploit its weakness.

The door opened and Malcolm peered through the crack, giving Callum a suspicious look.

"It's alright. He's here to help," Ruth assured him.

Malcolm opened the door wider and invited them in.

"Callum, this is Malcolm Wynne-Jones."

"The Malcolm Wynne-Jones?" Callum asked.

"I told you they still say your name with reverence," Ruth tossed over her shoulder as she walked to the back of the building leaving the men to trail behind her. She heard Callum wax poetical over a spider program Malcolm had developed and she crossed her fingers, hoping that the two minds would get along.

As Ruth entered the back room, she spotted Tom and immediately felt a sense of relief. The solidness of his presence assured her this entire endeavour was not a figment of her imagination. He was leaning against a table, his arms crossed, talking to a dark haired woman. Zoe. Ruth stopped, struck by the change in the other woman's appearance. Sitting on the edge of a table, her legs swinging, arms bracing the edge, Zoe leaned forward. She looked up and a smile broke over her face.

"Ruth," Zoe said warmly, as she propelled herself off the table, striding across the floor. She collected Ruth in a giant hug.

Ruth blinked, entirely overwhelmed. She had anticipated Zoe's presence but found she was completely unprepared for the whirl of emotions the reunion stirred inside her. She raised her arms and hugged the other woman, unable to stop a tiny sob from escaping. She was hugging her past, the life she had given up for the Service, everyone she had lost. They remained, holding each other, reliving a moment in time when they had been two completely different women.

Gently releasing her from the hug, Zoe took a step back, still holding onto Ruth's hands. She looked down, smiling, understanding as if she too were feeling the same emotions. "It's so good to see you," she said softly, filling the emotional silence.

Ruth could only nod. She inhaled a breath and on its release, gave a huge grin. It felt wonderful; she could not remember when she had last smiled so wide.

Sensing that Ruth had collected herself, Zoe turned to Callum. "Hi, I'm Zoe."

Callum shook the young woman's obviously intrigued by her. "Callum Reid."

Tom came over to Ruth and gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze. "It's all done. Not a hitch."

"Thank you. Thank you so much." She could not help but expel a huge sigh of relief. There had been no contact since Christine's call from the car. Everything was right with the world for this one moment. "Where's Christine?"

"You mean your new cleaning lady? At yours, packing up."

Ruth nodded and turned to Zoe. "Did you meet with Tessa?"

"Yeah. It was like a bad dream where you finally turn around to face a monster and then realise it was all your own imagination."

Ruth did not have the complete story of what had transpired between Zoe and Tessa, only snippets; ghost assets, bribery, betrayal, but she could sympathise with the whole idea of encountering a person from the past who left one feeling more dirty than clean.

"Can she help us?" asked Ruth.

Zoe smiled. "Tessa always did enjoy a challenge. And she believes I hate Harry. My enemy's enemy is my friend."

Ruth's brow furrowed in thought. Was Tessa's animosity towards Harry purely professional or had there been something deeper between them. Harry had, after all, kept a running tab on the woman. She rubbed her forehead, dismissing that idea. Her life was complicated enough as it was.

With his usual directness, Tom shifted the conversation."Why did you ask us here?"

Ruth's high spirits dipped, agitation setting back in. "It's Oliver Mace. He's back."

"I didn't know he'd left," Zoe commented.

"Wasn't he the head of the JIC years back?" Callum piped up.

"He tried to take over the Section when Tom shot Harry," Zoe informed Callum.

Callum gave Tom a look. "Wow. Shooting the boss. Every employee's dream."

"It looks as though this time Mace has succeeded." Ruth elaborated.

Malcolm looked at Ruth, the only member of the group to understand the personal cost of Mace's actions and the profound implications of his return. "What are you going to do?" he asked quietly. "Do you think he's back for revenge?"

Tom stirred from his spot. "Why would he want revenge?"

Heartbreak and revenge, Ruth thought, remembering Elena's words. She swallowed and continued. "I uncovered a plot where prisoners that were presumed dead were actually being extradited for torture. Mace was part of it." She stopped there, not wanting to elaborate on how her life had completely unravelled after that point. "I think we all know what kind of man Mace is," she continued. "Whatever happens, Harry cannot find out that he is back."

"He would have a fit if he knew Mace was taking over," said Malcolm.

"Don't worry, Dimitri's babysitting him," Tom offered up.

"It's all connected, Harry's departure, Mace, the Russians, but I can't figure out how," Ruth continued. "That's where you come in."

"What do you want us to do?" asked Callum.

"Clear Harry, expose the Russians, stop Mace, and save the Service," Ruth stated.

Zoe laughed. "That's insane."

Callum chuckled along. "Why not throw in steal the Crown Jewels while we're at it?"

Tom shifted, standing to his full height, the pose of authority silencing the laughter of Zoe and Callum. He levelled his look at Ruth. "What you're suggesting is a parallel op."

Ruth swallowed and straightened her posture to match Tom's, tilting her head defiantly. "Yes."

Tom nodded and looked away. "I don't owe the Service anything."

Zoe shrugged her shoulders. "I could say the same."

"But you owe Harry." Ruth searched for words of persuasion. "Tom, I know it was hard at the time, but he gave you back your life." Ruth turned to Zoe, beseeching. "At your trial they said it would only be a slap on the wrist; he had no idea of the final verdict, he arranged the whole sentence exchange for you."

"And we just freed him from the Americans. I'd call that even," Zoe countered.

Tom crossed his arms, giving Ruth a curious look. "And who would lead this op?"

"I would," Ruth said without hesitation. "With you." She looked about the group. "All of you."

Callum raised his hand. "Um, I already have a job and a boss and are we going to tell her about this?"

Before Ruth could answer, Malcolm spoke, his voice calm and steady. "I'm with you, Ruth."

Ruth looked over at him, marvelling at the loyalty of this wonderful man, a smile of gratitude warming her face. "Thank you, Malcolm." She looked around the group. As her eyes moved about, she could sense a shift in the dynamic. If two of the most stolid former spooks were willing to risk themselves on a questionable op, perhaps it had some merit.

"Do you have a plan?" Zoe hedged, signalling her thawing to the whole endeavour.

Ruth looked over at Tom to see if he was softening. He returned her look, eyes steely and unflinching.

"If I help, it's not for Harry or the Service. It's for you, Ruth."

"Good. Right. Thank you." She smiled at Tom. She turned to Callum, eyes large and expectant.

Callum sighed. "Why should I stop now?" he asked, signifying his capitulation.

"Quiet right." Ruth smiled at him. "Did you bring the passport?"

"Yes." Callum fished inside his coat and pulled out the document he had taken from Harry's safe.

"I'll fix this up right away," said Malcolm, taking the passport.

Ruth turned her attention to Malcolm. "Were you able to track Mace's whereabouts?"

"Yes, it seems our friend has been working with OSCE-"

"The what?" asked Zoe.

"Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe," clarified Callum.

From what I can parse together, he was stationed in Moldova but I'm still trying to figure out what he was doing there."

"Inescu!" Callum exclaimed, all heads turning toward him, while he looked at Ruth. "The file I sent you. One time member of Gavrik's private security, the leader of the gang who kidnapped Coaver, planted the bomb in the van. And a former member of the Moldavian Army."

"Yes," said Ruth. "That's why I sent Zoe to Tessa. Moldova has been distinctly pro-west, so why would a former soldier in its army work for and ex-KGB officer?"

Tom spoke. "Is that the connection then? Mace, Moldova, Inescu, Gavrik."

"But how," said Ruth.

"What if it's something bigger than Harry or the Service? Something we're not seeing." Tom asked.

"If it's bigger what is it?" Zoe asked.

"The partnership agreement has been signed; tonight is the last event with the Gavriks and now Mace is overseeing the security. I think something will happen this evening. That's why I need Tom and Zoe at the theatre.

"There's been chatter about a protest," said Callum.

"Keep your eye on that," Ruth instructed. "And we're going to need an obo van."

"We have to tell Erin what we're doing."

"We will, we will, I promise. We just need some concrete info." Ruth rubbed her hand over her eyes. "You can run your team, the Service team, and Malcolm will run our team. I won't be able to come back here. The Americans are following me.

"Well Tom, it looks like you and I are going to have to clean ourselves up for this evening."

Tom took out his mobile and started to dial. "I'll get Christine to bring the clothes. Something for you too, Ruth."

"Don't worry, I have a dress."

"This one is special. Based on one of your designs, Malcolm."

At that moment, the last thing on Ruth's mind was her wardrobe. "Fine. I'm going to need a clutch then."

Tom looked at Ruth, bewildered.

"A purse, Tom," Zoe clarified, steering Tom out of the room.

Seeing that was Callum was preoccupied, with a gadget he had found on one of the shelves, Ruth crossed to the desk where Malcolm sat. She picked up a ballpoint pen that lay by his computer; black, sleek, the perfect weight for writing. She rolled it back and forth between her fingers.

"I'm going to need a pen."

Malcolm looked at her and their eyes met in the wordless symbiotic communication of people who had known each other for years and worked in the same business. She tightened her grip on the pen.

"Mace is a bishop," she observed. "He came out of nowhere, straight across the board."

"Bishops are good in the endgame."

"But it's not the endgame." She handed the pen over to Malcolm. "We have all our pieces back."

...

The car crawled along through the traffic, the tedium punctuated by the tapping of Dimitri's fingers on the steering wheel, a singular tune known only to him. To Harry, it was a form of torture. He sat drumming his own fingers on his thigh, contemplating possible scenarios, trying to grasp a situation over which he had no control. He felt as trapped as he had in the boot of the Americans' car. This plan was going forward without his knowledge and had no idea where it was leading, although at this point he had figured out their immediate destination. He looked over at the young man in the driver's seat.

"They'll be watching the airport."

Dmitri continued to tap his fingers. "How do you know we're going to the airport?"

"We're heading west and we're stuck in traffic."

Dimitri halted his fingers and looked sideways at Harry.

Harry shifted in his seat. He was tired of sitting. "I don't know what Ruth's plan is, but going to the airport is a sure-fire way to get caught."

Before Dmitri could reply, his mobile sounded from its position on the dashboard. He looked down at the display and then back up to Harry. Touching his finger to his lips, he signalled for Harry to stay quiet and calmly pushed the button on the phone.

"Erin, what can I do for you?"

"D, I need you back here as soon as possible."

A bemused expression crossed Harry's face. Shortening the name, always a sign of attachment. Why not, he thought, they were young and attractive, more deserving of love than he.

Erin's voice continued through the speaker. "Harry's gone missing."

Dmitri smiled and quickly covered it, lest it come through in his voice. "What?"

"We're getting a lot of pressure from above. They're sending someone to oversee the department."

Harry silently signalled to Dimitri. "Who?" he mouthed.

"Who are they sending?" Dmitri asked.

"Oliver Mace."

Harry sat motionless, every thought swept from his mind. How? How? His ears filled with a roaring wave of rage and his breath became laboured. The man had been exiled to a dead end diplomatic post. How had he made his way back to London? He reached over to grab the phone, but Dimitri's hand shot up to stop him.

"Listen, I'm stuck in traffic. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Callum's doing a walkthrough with Ruth for the gala tonight. Swing by the theatre if you can."

Harry started at the mention of Ruth's name. She would be alone with Mace.

"Right then. Talk soon." Dimitri ended the conversation as quickly as he could, realising that Harry was having a hard time containing his temper.

"We cannot let that man anywhere near the Section," Harry said through gritted teeth.

Dimitri had seen Harry angry in the past, but this controlled seething was even more unnerving. "Harry, you're on the run. The plan is to get you out of the country."

"He will destroy the integrity of the Service. His policy is information by any means necessary. His aim has always been to make it a propaganda arm of the government. There needs to be a wall. We must have our own mandate. And God knows what he'll do to Ruth."

"Ruth?" the young man asked, confused. "Why would he do anything to Ruth?"

"Years ago he tried to use Ruth as leverage so I would come around to his way of thinking. She exposed a cover up he was involved in but the price was she had to fake her death and flee the country."

"Leverage," Dimitri pondered. "Like Lucas?"

Like Mani, Harry thought.

"I sent her to the Home Office to protect her from the Russians. I never thought Mace would turn up." Harry looked around at the traffic, assessing the best way out. "Take me to the Grid."

"You're a wanted man. They'll have you in cuffs as soon as you walk on the floor."

"Then stop the car and let me out."

"Harry listen, you can't go back, you've got to stay underground. If you're not around, they can't use Ruth against you. That is if you love her, which I think you do. But what goes on between you two is none of my business."

"You're right. It is none of your business," Harry retorted. He closed his eyes. It pained him to concede that Dimitri was right. The best way to protect Ruth would be to stay away from her.

"If Mace is a threat, let us take care of him."

Harry regarded Dimitri; the young man's argument was so similar to Tom's logic. If only there was more time, he thought, I'd mould him into a crack agent. But for now, he would have to learn things the hard way.

"Dimitri, you're a good officer and I'm going to give you three pieces of advice. Never drink scotch that is less than ten years old and sock away enough money to retire someplace warm." Harry paused, his eyes wandering to Dimitri's mobile, the young agent following his gaze.

"What's the third thing," asked Dimitri.

"Always, always, lock your doors."

With an agility that surprised the younger man, Harry opened up the car door and jumped out.

Refusing to believe Harry had been so quick, Dimitri sat in stunned silence. Gathering his wits, he called after Harry. The older man wove through the traffic, crossing to the other side of the road and headed in the opposite direction. Dimitri slammed his fist on the steering wheel. Amidst the honking of fellow motorists, he manoeuvred the car to the side of the road, parking in a haphazard diagonal and jumped out after Harry. He ran to the sidewalk and looked left and right. How fast could the old man go? Through the crowd, he saw a dark coat and a slightly balding head. He ran towards the figure with great leaping strides. Coming beside the man, he reached for his shoulder only to see as the figure turned around that it wasn't Harry. The stranger gave him a dirty look and continued.

"Shit," Dimitri muttered to himself. He stood still, a rock among a streaming throng of people. He walked back to his car and with an air of resignation, took his place behind the driver's seat. He unhooked his phone from the dash and keyed in a number.

"Ruth, I've lost him."

...

Zoe leaned on the balustrade, looking out over the water. It was where they had met all those many years ago. Tessa must have a nostalgic streak, she mused. It was ten minutes past the agreed time but she was determined not to let her exasperation show. She knew it was Tessa's gambit for control, keeping the contact waiting, a game of one-upmanship. Frankly, she didn't care about Tessa's little schemes; she was more worried about detection. Waiting always drew suspicion. She maintained an aura of nonchalance by pretending to text on her mobile. She would not let Tessa see that the delay had unnerved her.

Zoe turned around, peered through her sunglasses, and saw Tessa walking toward her. The older woman casually handed her an envelope, looking across the river as she spoke.

"Information on your merry little band of men. Quite a history of arms dealing."

"Thank you, Tessa, you're a treasure."

"You're too kind." Tessa discreetly held out her other hand and Zoe slipped a small envelope into it.

Tessa moved closer to Zoe, her breast brushing against the young woman's shoulder, her voice cloying close. "I've decided to throw in a little extra, just for you Zoe."

Zoe eyed up Tessa, keeping her face as neutral as possible while her insides screamed with distaste, remembering how Tess always used the invasion of personal space as a weapon. "Oh, and what would that be?"

"Beware of the Agency."

The Agency, what's that?"

"You're a big girl now, you can figure it out." Tessa moved away, smiling slyly. She turned and took two steps away, stopping to look back at Zoe. "Don't you need to have the last word?"

Zoe smiled back at her. "I'd rather have the last move." Before the other woman could move, she turned walking briskly away, smiling at the thought that she had left Tessa staring at her retreating back.

...

Ruth stood punching the button on the wall. Did all theatre lifts move so slowly, she wondered.

"It doesn't come any faster if you keep pushing the button," Callum pointed out.

"The signal has already been sent to the controller," Malcolm chimed in, heightening Ruth's irritation.

They waited, surrounded by the cool tiles of the theatre's basement level. Ruth checked the time on her phone, noticing that the hour was passing at an alarming rate. Finally, the lift door opened and they entered, turning to stand side by side, facing the door.

"Do you think there's a camera in here?" Ruth asked.

"I don't know. Their in-house security is pretty sketchy," Callum answered.

"That's probably why this venue was chosen," Malcolm commented dryly.

Ruth cleared her throat.

"Harry's in the wind."

The elevator dinged and the door slid open, allowing Ruth to walk blithely into the lobby, leaving Callum and Malcolm to stand in stunned silence. As the door started to close, they roused themselves, and hurried through the opening, trotting after Ruth.

"What do you mean?" Malcolm hissed as he caught up to Ruth.

"He's gone. And if he shows up here, we're cooked," Ruth predicted, her agitation manifesting in the speed of her stride, her footsteps muffled in the deep red carpet of the foyer. She turned into an anteroom that was designated for the reception.

The sun poured through an enormous window, its rays reflecting off a giant glass chandelier, casting dazzling prisms of light over the red and gold interior. It would have been a beautiful sight if not for the presence of two FSB officers at the end of the room. Sasha turned towards them, his face registering recognition.

"Oh look it's Vlad," Callum said under his breath.

Ruth put her hand out by her side, signalling for the two men to remain in their place. Mustering an air of bravado, she walked toward Sasha.

"Miss Evershed," he coldly greeted her.

"We're here to go over security for tonight."

"As are we."

Such good spies weren't they, she thought, neither of them giving any indication that he had held a gun to her head a few days earlier. She moved closer and he gravitated towards her, distancing himself from his fellow officer. She spoke to him in a low whisper.

"What was on the laptop?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing about Harry? I find that hard to believe."

The young man looked at her, a pained expression fleeting across his eyes. He knew that Harry was his father. Ruth examined him, his eyes were blue, nothing like Harry's, but in the roll of the genetic dice, all combinations were possible. Standing so close to him, she realised how young he was, a boy like Tariq, caught up in the fallout of a Cold War game. Did he have any control over his own destiny or was he being played like the rest of them?

"The Americans know you have the laptop," she warned. "I can help you. Give it to me and I can dispose of it."

He brought his face in close to hers. "You don't want to help me," he hissed at her. "You only care about information."

Ruth pulled back, his words stinging harder than she thought possible.

"And it would be better if you stopped asking so many questions." He stepped back and spoke in a louder voice, a bid to hide the nature of their conversation. "Yes, please let us know what security measures you are taking."

He motioned to his fellow officer and the two men left the room.

She watched him leave, feeling unsettled by the discussion. She turned to see Callum and Malcolm regarding her they walked over.

"What was that about," asked Callum.

"The laptop. I think it's only a matter of time before the Americans connect me to it."

Malcolm moved the subject back to their original concern. "What do you propose we do about Harry?"

Ruth looked at him, wishing she had another arm to juggle all the balls that were now in the air.

Another figure slipped into the room. They turned to see Zoe, her presences causing a collective sigh of relief. She walked toward the group a bag in one hand, a manila envelope in the other. Dispensing with pleasantries, she handed the envelope to Ruth, and the men drew in close, listening to her news.

"Inescu," whispered Zoe intensely, "Contracted to this man, Vadim Lacusta. Holdings in Transnistria. Linked to illegal arms deals."

"Transnistria, it's a breakaway state, technically part of Moldova, they're not recognised by the international community," Ruth explained, falling back into her role as an analyst. "There are a number of former Soviet weapon cache's left in the country, all with enough material to construct dirty bombs."

"You think that's what's happening tonight? A bomb?" Callum asked.

"I don't know" Ruth continued. "Transnistria is very cozy with Russia. So any intelligence sharing might include information they have on illegal weapons smuggling."

"And I'm sure there are a few people who have stakes in that," said Callum.

"Tessa also warned us to be careful of the Agency," Zoe interjected.

"Does she mean the CIA?" asked Malcolm,

"Why wouldn't she say the Company or the Cousins?" Callum pointed out.

"No," Ruth said, "She means trolls. It's an organisation that posts pro-Russian comments on the web.

"Dezinformatsiya," said Malcolm "Usually it's propaganda but it can also denote misinformation."

"The protest tonight. Why all of a sudden was there all this chatter on the web about it?"

"When you get back, check into the posters; see if they are shadow accounts."

Zoe produced a pair of earrings for Ruth. "These are the ear pieces and the Coms device is embedded in this." She pulled out part of a black dress, a subtle geometric pattern embossed on the sleeve.

Malcolm reached over and touched the material, a look of elation crossing his face as if he had just opened a present. "Graphene?" His smile widening when Zoe nodded. "Thin, strong, and highly conductive. Brilliant!"

Callum pressed in. "Let's have a look at that."

Ruth took the dress from Zoe looking apologetically at Malcolm and Callum. "Perhaps another day. Right now the clock's ticking."

...

The carriage was crowded and airless. Harry clutched at the metal bar though there was no need, as he was crushed in the crowd. This is what his life had come to, sandwiched between a student with an alarmingly large rucksack, and a businessman with what felt like a weaponised briefcase. Rush hour amongst the great unwashed. He had become soft sitting behind a desk, chauffeured around in a comfortable car. He examined his reflection in the darkness of the train window, he hardly recognised himself out of a suit. He quickly lowered his head though the chances of anyone trawling the underground cameras for his appearance were slim. The authorities would be keeping their eyes on routes out of the country or at least out of the city. The car swayed and he let it move him, listening to the clack of the carriage. Get out, get out, get out it chanted. Get out of what, he wondered. The train, the Service, the country?

The train stopped and Harry exited, keeping himself immersed in the crowd. He had stayed away from Waterloo, a station nigh impossible to monitor but he suspected there might be boots on the ground as it was a possible egress from the city. He opted instead for the teeming humanity Oxford Circus. Swept along by a sea of people he found himself deposited at the top of the station stairs. At the heart, under their noses, in plain sight. He felt a rush of the adrenaline; he was once again an agent in the field, left to his own devices. He mentally ticked off what he would need, burner phone, cigarettes, a plan. After walking a few blocks, the temptation of renting a car grew in his mind. He slipped into the crack between two buildings, certain that he was out of CCTV range, and rifled through the wallet so kindly provided for him. The documentation had all the hallmarks of Malcolm's work, driver's license, credit card, golf club membership. Cheeky sod. He had even included the pocket litter of Geoffrey Inness' life, a dry cleaning ticket, a receipt for a takeaway and the stub from an old show at Covent Garden. He took out the ticket stub and rubbed it between his fingers. He smiled slowly, silently thanking Malcolm. Of course, Ruth would be at the theatre. Everyone would be there. Including Mace.


	7. Chapter 6

The light from the chandelier cast a warm glow over the room, cocooning the inhabitants from the darkness outside. A red velvet cordon was strung across the entranceway, insulating them from the ordinary patrons of the theatre. Ruth observed the crowd on the other side of the rope, milling about, dressed in varying degrees of what passed for formal wear, enjoying their drinks, chatting, laughing. They were the free ones; she was the one who was corralled, trapped in a pen of politicos and bureaucrats. Her eyes wandered up to the chandelier and she wondered at the weight of the dangling prisms and how safely it was attached to the ceiling. Her brow furrowed. At what point in her life had she started to view objects of beauty as possible weapons for assassins?

The notes of a piano tinkled in the background while a junior minister stood before her, holding her captive with his conversation. His voice was overly serious and ingratiating, obviously thinking she wielded far greater power than she did. She sipped on her glass of white wine, too sweet for her taste and gave herself over to imagining that she was having a night out. She closed her eyes and pictured Harry walking up to her, dressed in his tuxedo, the palm of his hand pressing into the small of her back as he leant over to whisper in her ear. A tart comment about the drudgery of the assembled personages or something more personal, seductive, loaded with implication, the thought caused a secret smile to play on her lips. She opened her eyes, the smile dropping from her lips as the junior minister, oblivious to her salacious musings, continued to drone on. A flame of anger flickered in her that she was here talking to this man rather than Harry. She sighed and resigned herself to the fact that they would never have their night out. She focused her attention on the young man and felt a moment of panic when she realised she couldn't remember his name. It was very disconcerting, her memory was razor sharp, she needed every advantage tonight; she would have to stop thinking about Harry.

She took another sip of the wine and quickly schooled herself not to indulge; she needed to keep her wits about her. Glancing around the reception area, she picked out the camera positions, though she was well aware that they did not need eyes on her. The technology implanted in the sleeve of her dress allowed Malcolm to track her every move, listen to her voice, monitor her heartbeat. She wondered if he had picked up the quickening of her pulse when she had thought about Harry. The dress was a simple black affair, very modest, covering all the essential areas, although it was more form fitting that she would have liked. She felt exposed without the layer of her jacket for protection or the sturdiness of her boots. The ear devices were made of pearl studs and she had to stop herself from constantly adjusting them. She hated earrings; they pinched her lobes and tangled her hair. She had swept her hair up in a vain attempt to stop any strands from becoming twisted. There was a ring on her finger, a simple silver circle that could easily be mistaken for a wedding band except that she had chosen to wear it on her right hand. Like the earrings, she had to stop herself from fiddling with it, Malcolm having schooled her that constantly rotating the device would damage its intended function. She could see her reflection in the large floor to ceiling window and stopped, not recognising the image that looked back. If she didn't know it was her she would say the woman looked rather sophisticated. She decided to embrace that notion, the thought giving her a much-needed boost in morale for the task ahead.

Any delight Ruth could have possibly salvaged from the evening quickly evaporated at the appearance of the Gavriks. Sasha walked behind them, choosing to oversee security from the theatre as opposed to backstage. Raising her glass, she spoke into her sleeve, alerting Malcolm that the Russians had arrived. Her lips twitched as he chastised her for not using their code names. Her eyes found the Alphas; Erin and Dimitri. The Section Chief remained oblivious to Ruth, instead focusing her attention on the crowd. She was probably reporting the same information to Callum and if there was any other salient news, it would be relayed to her through Malcolm. The only voices in her ears were that of Tom and Zoe, the Echos, placed inside the theatre, away from the reception guests, lest some government official recognise them. She had a twinge of conscience that she had not informed Erin of the scope of their operation. She told herself she was making Erin's life easier, that the Section Chief need only deal with the threat to the Russians while she dealt with the Russian threat.

Ruth politely excused herself from the conversation and moved towards the Home Secretary in time to hear him address the Russian minister.

"Ah Gavrik," Towers greeted the man. "Not sure if you will have time for a drink before the show. Time is closing in on us."

"There is always time for a drink, William," Gavrik declared, taking two glasses from a passing waiter to illustrate his point. He handed one of the glasses over to Elena.

Seeing that the two men were engaged in conversation, Ruth manoeuvred herself closer to Elena. Sasha stood facing his mother, his back toward Ruth. She placed her right hand on his arm and softly said excuse me. Her hand lingered with more pressure than was strictly necessary, the ring brushing his sleeve. He looked into her eyes before he stepped away and she remembered his stinging accusation that she didn't care about him, that all she wanted was information.. Once again, her conscience sounded but she quickly shut it down. Conscience is a luxury, Harry would say. She moved to stand beside Elena.

"This reminds me of your welcome reception," Ruth observed. "A different place perhaps, but the same people."

"There is one absence," Elena responded, looking at Ruth with speculation, her eyes taking in the other woman's dress.

Ruth carried on. "I've had a message from backstage; the soloist would be honoured if you came to visit her at intermission."

"How wonderful," Elena answered drolly.

"I understand she once danced with the Kiselow Ballet." Ruth kept her face neutral; looking out over the guests, hoping the other woman would understand the coded meaning to her words; that the Kiselow Ballet had once been a ruse for a meeting with Harry.

"Ah yes, I believe you are right." Elena gave Ruth a thin smile. "I would be happy to meet with her."

A bell chimed, signalling ten minutes until the start of the performance. With an aristocratic self-assurance, Elena took one last sip of her drink and handed it to Ruth, walking away towards her husband. Clenching the stem of the glass, Ruth marshalled all her self-control not to hurtle the goblet after the Russian. Instead, she gave it to a passing waiter. She turned back hoping to find Towers but found herself looking straight at the chest of Oliver Mace.

"Miss Evershed, you look particularly enchanting this evening."

Ruth gave him a tight smile certain that Malcolm's instruments would record the speed of her escalated heartbeat. "We should find our seats," she said evasively, taking a step to move past him.

Mace shifted, blocking her path. "The buzzards are circling. The CIA want their laptop." He paused, his eyes raking over her dress as Elena's had, but with a completely different intent. "How long will Towers protect you?" He bent down to her ear and whispered. "Tell me where Harry is and I can make it all go away."

She looked at him blankly. "I have no idea where Harry is." It was the truth, for at that moment he could be in Biarritz for all she knew. "And I don't know anything about a laptop."

"Then you won't mind speaking with Americans tomorrow afternoon." He stepped away, motioning with his hand for her to walk ahead of him. "As you said, we should find our seats. It should prove to be quite a performance."

Ruth closed her eyes, quelling the sensation that a net was slowly tightening around her. "Oh well," she murmured into her glass, "Into the valley of death." Taking a large gulp of her drink, she set the glass down on a linen covered table and tried not to think of how she would hold up under CIA interrogation. She proceeded to walk in front of Mace, her back straight, head held high, showing no fear, but with the distinct feeling she was walking towards the gallows.

...

Removed from the glow of the theatre, the demonstrators huddled behind a makeshift barricade, crowding together to keep warm. Hidden away in the shadows of an alley, Harry stood with his hands in his pockets assessing the situation. There was something wrong with the protest but he couldn't put his finger on it. Why here? Why now? There had not been no other rumblings of public discontent before this. In amongst the placards of Russian aggression and human rights violations were slogans championing Moldovan sovereignty. Harry's mind toyed with the possibility of agent provocateurs. At any rate, the protest wasn't his main concern; he had every faith that Erin had things well in hand, having spied a dark van parked along the street. He needed to figure out a means of getting into the theatre. For a brief moment, he contemplated walking back to the van and browbeating whoever was inside to assign him clearance.

Security would be tight at the backstage entrance; he concluded his best bet was the front door, hidden in plain sight. He smiled to himself; if he was going to go that far why not step to the wicket and buy a ticket. He scanned the crowd of patrons waiting outside, a crush of people arriving at the last minute. As usual, there were stragglers, the ones with a penchant for nicotine, squeezing every second that was left to satiate their habit. He spotted a man and a woman, chatting animatedly and sharing a cigarette.

"Excuse," Harry said, approaching the couple as he held a cigarette. "I can't find my lighter. I wonder if I could..."

"Yeah, sure mate." The young man patted his coat looking for a lighter.

A crowd of people walked by pushing into Harry and he stumbled into the young man.

"So sorry," Harry apologised. "Wait a moment." He pulled a lighter out of his pocket. "Here it is, silly me."

"Right. Cheers mate," the young man responded congenially.

Harry smiled back. Nice boy; he almost felt bad for fleecing him. He quickly embedded himself into the crowd and walked away. He kept his head down; knowing there would be cameras everywhere and presented his ticket to the usher. He hoped his ordinary street clothes would cover his appearance for the moment. He walked into the lobby to the sound of bells, patrons walking briskly to their sections. He approached an usher, a pimply-faced lad.

"Could you tell me where my seat is?" Harry showed him the lifted ticket.

"Yes, Sir," the usher said while looking at the ticket. "It's up those stairs to the balcony."

"Nosebleeds, yes I know. I tried to upgrade but there was some sort of government thing going on."

"Yeah, a reception for a Russian Minister. They took the best seats on the Tier."

"Thank you." Harry smiled at the young man and walked towards the stairs, careful to avert his head. As he walked up the stairs, he could see the young man whose ticket he had liberated embroiled in a heated discussion with the door personal. Harry quickened his pace and the words he had said to Ruth rattled around in his head. He hadn't wanted to be remembered as rogue agent gone off-piste, but here he was alone, no backup, no plan, save for the burning instinct that Mace was here and he had to be stopped.

He turned the corner to the next level and stopped short. Across the landing, directly in front of his gaze stood Erin. Their eyes met, and they stared at each other in stunned silence. She raised her hand to her ear and he saw her lips move. He took a quick step back and pressed himself against the wall, shaking his head at the folly of hiding from one's own agents. In three swift steps, he found cover in another group of people and headed up to the balcony.

...

The air was close and stiflingly hot. Callum tried to stretch his arm but ended up banging into a monitor. He cursed and silently vowed that he would make it his mission to design a comfortable obo van. Malcolm looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. Callum smiled back apologetically.

"Guess you've spent a lot of hours in one of these haven't you?"

"Yes, I have. And it never gets any pleasanter."

Callum wasn't sure if he should be insulted or not. He turned back to the monitor, his gaze flicking over the screens. He felt rather Jekyll and Hyde over this whole operation. He was sitting at the connecting vertices of two universes, the conduit between the official Service operation and Ruth's clandestine one.

"Good Lord," Malcolm exclaimed. He pointed at the screen directing Callum's gaze. "Is that Harry?"

The figure was hard to discern, Callum never having seen Harry in anything but a suit. "Can you zoom in?" Callum asked, moving closer to the monitor. The image revealed the back of his former boss' head. "Shit."

The com crackled. "Control, this is Alpha One." It was Erin. "I think I may have spotted Papa Bear."

"Roger, Alpha One," Callum responded.

"Do you have a visual, Control."

Callum looked at Malcolm and mouthed, "What do we do?" Malcolm shook his head. "That's a negative, Alpha One." He waited for Erin's response, tapping nervously on the video equipment. He looked sideways and saw Malcolm crossing his fingers.

"Right," Erin said with an unmistakable air of annoyed disbelief. "I'm coming to you."

Callum ripped the headset off and tossed it onto the space in front of the monitors. "That's it, we're cooked."

"What will she do?" asked Malcolm.

"Well, she did refer to him as Papa Bear, so anyone on this channel would have no idea who she was talking about." Callum shrugged his shoulders. "That might be a good sign." He blew a frustrated breath through his lips "We have to tell Ruth."

"I suppose we do," conceded Malcolm.

"Better you than me."

Malcolm spoke into his headset. "Come in Decima."

"Why did you choose Decima?" asked Callum

"Roman goddess, one of the Fates. She measured out the length of one's life."

"Cheerful."

Malcolm leant toward Callum as if imparting a great secret. "Never underestimate the importance of call signs."

Callum's phone rang, diverting his attention and he left Malcolm to break the news to Ruth. As he listened, he ran his hand through his hair, a look of consternation on his face. He rang off and turned to the former officer.

"That was the Grid. We have a bomb threat."

"Oh my," Malcolm responded, unfazed by the announcement, "Do you have a source."

"They're sending us the information now."

There was a loud bang on the outside of the obo van; the noise Callum had been dreading since the start of the whole operation. Knowing there was nothing he could do bar starting the van and driving off, he opened the door. Erin unceremoniously hitched up her dress and climbed in with a look of complete rage on her face.

"Alright, what is going on?" She noticed Malcolm sitting beside Callum. "Who is this?" she demanded angrily.

"I'm Malcolm Wynne-Jones, Miss Watts. I'm a former technical officer with the section. I was brought in by Miss Evershed."

Erin glared at Callum, her expression echoing the warning she had given him earlier about Ruth. "Miss Evershed has no jurisdiction over the operation. Unsanctioned personnel cannot be in this vehicle. Your presence is a threat our mission."

"If I could explain-" Malcolm said mildly.

"No. The one who needs to do the explaining is him." She rounded on Callum. "What are you doing mixed up in this?"

"We tried to keep Harry away but Dimitri-"

"Dimitri?" Erin's voice hit a higher decibel. "He's involved in this too?" She gave Callum a look of complete disbelief. "I'm your Section Chief. Why would you go behind my back? This is the security of the nation we're dealing with not some schoolboy prank."

"Yes and I know and," Callum cleared his throat. "We didn't come to you because Ruth believes that Oliver Mace is somehow involved with the Russians and we wanted proof before we told you. We don't know how high this goes."

"Mace?" Erin asked incredulously. She looked back and forth between the two men, both of whom remained steadfast in their explanation.

"Listen, we're talking about Ruth," Callum justified, "a woman who is not known to exaggerate. And at this point, she's the least of our problems; we've got word of a bomb threat."

Erin took a deep breath through her teeth. "God that's all we need. We swept the building; if it's true, it's been brought in. How seriously do we take this?"

"That's the thing," Callum continued, "We don't know what's real and what's been fed to us by the Agency.

Erin gave him a confused look.

"A Russian organisation that disseminates misinformation on the web," Malcolm volunteered.

"Let's take it as real until we find otherwise," Erin concluded. "Liaise with the Met and see if they've set up a Gold Commander. Dimitri and I will cover inside. He should be in the theatre with Towers."

"What about the protestors?" asked Callum.

"We'll have to clear them out and assess an evacuation of the theatre." She looked back and forth between the two men. "Let me get this straight, Ruth is running her own operation, Harry who is a fugitive from the CIA is here, there's a bomb threat and we have no idea what's going on."

"That pretty much sums it up," Callum confirmed.

Erin nodded. Placing her hand on the door but stopped before she opened it, narrowing her eyes at Callum. "Is there anything else I should know?" Callum shook his head. "Keep me updated." She swung open the door and hopped out of the back of the van.

Callum turned to Malcolm and smiled. "I think that went rather well."

...

The house lights were still up as Harry entered the section. He moved down the stairs, looking for his seat. After the obligatory apologies to those already seated, he found his location. The dissonant notes of orchestral tuning filled the air, a sound that he usually relished as a prelude to an excellent performance. Tonight, the trill of the flutes and the thumping of the timpani only heightened his apprehension. All that was needed was for a gunshot to be coordinated with a cymbal crash.

To his left, two young women sat happily engaged in conversation. The woman beside him fiddled with an object in her lap, her free hand rising to tuck her short dark hair behind her ear. Harry closed his eyes, overcome with the image that it was Ruth sitting beside him. He let his mind go, imagining that it was her, smiling as she leant over to him, pointing out a line in the programme, her shoulder brushing his, her thigh fleetingly pressing against his, he would dip his head closer to listen, catching the intoxicating scent that was particular only to her. He quickly opened his eyes. Fool, he chastised; this is how operations are compromised. This is the sort of fantasising that got you in trouble in Berlin, he reminded himself. He glanced again at the woman beside him, concluding she looked nothing at all like Ruth. He noticed that the object in her lap was a pair of opera glasses.

"Pardon me," he said, interrupting their conversation. "I think my wife may have wandered into another section, I was wondering if I could borrow your glasses for a moment." He smiled, hoping that he still possessed enough charisma to persuade the woman as opposed to seeming like a predatory letch. To his amazement, she smiled back at him, handing over her glasses with a friendly "of course." Harry nodded graciously. Perhaps he still had a bit of the old charm left in him, only evident when he was not dealing with prats from Whitehall. He scanned the audience, lowering the binoculars to the mezzanine level and stopped when he spotted a head of red hair. Elena. He moved across the row; Gavrik, Towers, Mace and sat between the two men, Ruth. His heart constricted at the thought that she was so close. Had Erin informed her he was in the building? No, Ruth was part of the Home Office now, she wouldn't be on coms. He suppressed the urge to rush down there, pull her away from them, and run. It warred with an equally potent urge to wrap his hands around Mace's throat. He moved the glasses back to Mace and flinched as the man seemingly looked straight up at him. Impossible, he thought, Mace could not recognise him from this distant. He handed the glasses back to the young woman with a smile and sat back in his seat, contemplating his next move. He would bide his time until intermission and pray that he had not walked into an elaborate trap.


	8. Chapter 7

Three long sorrowful notes hung in the air, while Giselle, driven mad by betrayal, lay dead in her Mother's arms. In the space of a heartbeat, the audience erupted in a wave of applause. A chorus of bravos and whistles filled the theatre as the red curtain descended on the first act. Ruth's gaze remained focused on the stage as she clapped along, suppressing the urge to jump out of the confines of her seat and rush into the lobby. It was a great performance and ordinarily she loved the ballet, but her mind was spinning with thoughts of Harry; he was in the theatre, lurking somewhere in the darkness. She dared not look about for she could feel Mace's gaze burning into her. He had watched her during the performance and she had schooled herself not to shrink away from his presence, his elbow on the armrest, his legs crossed so that his foot brushed her calf. She had done her best to look engaged, even shedding a tear at Giselle's death; although a voice in the back of her mind had asked how many times, a woman must die because of a man. The applause dwindled and the patrons rose to their feet, stretching their legs, voices murmuring about the performance. Ruth joined the slow exodus to the lobby, Mace walking uncomfortably close behind. Her only comfort was the voice of Malcolm in her ear.

"Decima, do you copy?"

Ruth coughed twice into her sleeve, indicating that she was not free to talk.

"Echos One and Two are in place," Malcolm continued. "We can activate the nanoparticles from your ring with a microwave burst if you need to track Sasha. Still no sign of the package."

The coms went silent as Malcolm gathered more information. She knew that by "package" that he meant Harry and she kept her head down to stop herself from frantically looking about the lobby. The coms crackled to life again.

"No definitive trace on the bomb threat. We have an IP address linked to a server in Philippines."

She envisaged Callum spouting sarcastic comments as he tried to pin down the address. Even though the culprit was server jumping, they all suspected it would lead to a trail of information placed by the Russian Agency.

Emerging into the expanse of the lobby, she casually walked toward the reception area, placing everyone as she moved. Towers, Gavrik, Sasha. Mace remained irritatingly close, waiting for her to make a move. She spotted Elena through the crowd and their eyes met. Across the lobby, the junior minister who had monopolised her conversation before the show gave her a friendly wave. She gave him a wan smile and trailed her fingers along her collarbone, speaking into her sleeve as she did so. "I need you to distract Mace." The junior minister took a step towards her and she made a feint in his direction. From the corner of her eye, she could see Mace pulling out his mobile and then turn to look toward the front entrance. Taking advantage of his distraction, Ruth changed her course and quickly moved to Elena. She took the woman's elbow, giving every impression that they were on a friendly tour of the theatre and crossed to the backstage stairs. As expected, Elena's bodyguard trotted along after them. Sasha, on the other hand, did not follow, choosing to stay behind. Curious, that he would let his mother out of his sight. Following her instinct, she murmured for Malcolm to track the young man's movements.

When they reached the stairs, Ruth apprised the security guard of their permission to meet with the soloist. He gave them clearance and they descended into the labyrinth corridors that lead to the dressing rooms. The click of their heels echoed on the tiled floor, as they navigated their way past dancers and stagehands. Stopping in front of a door, Ruth informed Elena's bodyguard that he could go no further. Elena nodded her assent. Opening the door, she ushered Elena into the dressing room. As she closed the door behind them, she could hear the soft thump of the bodyguard hitting the floor and her eyes flickered to Elena, wondering if she had heard it too. The woman gave no indication she had.

Round candescent bulbs framed the mirrors, giving the room a soft glow. Ruth could feel the heat radiating from lights, or perhaps it was the wine. She inhaled the combined scent of makeup and sweat that permeated the air.

Elena looked curiously around the room, her eyes widening as they fell upon Zoe. "Who are you?"

"I'm the soloist," Zoe responded.

"Where's Harry?" Elena asked, looking pointedly at Ruth.

"I think he's more of an opera man these days," she answered.

"I thought I was to meet him. Why am I here?"

Ruth pulled up a chair for herself and motioned for Elena to sit in the one by the dressing table. "I was hoping you could help us."

Elena hesitated and Ruth met her gaze openly, as if she had nothing to conceal, giving a tiny nod of encouragement. They assessed each other, hawk and dove. The Russian relented to the request and sat down beside the mirror. Zoe took the seat beside Ruth and handed her a small purse. In her peripheral vision, Ruth could see Zoe discreetly adjusting her arm, touching her sleeve so that Malcolm could listen on their conversation.

The lights from the mirror cast a copper hue on Elena's hair, the strands arranged in an elaborate sculpture, the weight of her head precariously balanced on her slender neck. She wore a jewel green dress, the alabaster of her arms and neck showing in stark contrast to the shimmering fabric. Ruth could see her own image in the mirror, small and dark, everything completely covered. She wondered which one of them had more to hide.

"You want me to help you," Elena prompted, bringing Ruth's thoughts back.

Ruth nodded. "Yes. You see, even after all this time, we still don't know who has been running you."

"What does it matter? The agreement is signed."

"Yes, but I'm an analyst, I ask questions, pull threads out and tie them together in ways others might not see. I find it very annoying when threads are left dangling." Ruth unhooked the clasp on the small handbag and pulled out a pen. "I like pens, they help me think. Bit of a nervous habit really." She twirled the pen around between her fingers. "I find there are two types of people in this world; those who carry pens and those who ask for them."

Elena's glanced down at the pen then quickly back up to Ruth. "I am not your enemy. Like you, I only want what is best for my country."

Oh, she is good, thought Ruth, not even a hint of fear.

"I couldn't help but recall what you had said earlier; that we must live with our broken hearts and unlike those betrayed in Giselle, we do not get to come back in the second act and seek revenge."

Ruth waited. Still nothing, not even a blink.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Elena said flatly.

"We're coming up to the second act now, aren't we? We've all been assigned our parts but I think you are the only one who knows the story." Ruth tapped the pen on her fingers and looked straight at Elena. "We've had word of a bomb threat." She watched as Elena sat motionlessly. "You don't seem particularly worried."

"Should I be?"

"No, because it not real is it? It's misdirection. Everything about your visit has been misdirection."

"Has Harry sent you on another one of his errands?"

Ruth had expected that card but not so soon. She steeled herself. "Why would you think that?"

"You think you know Harry, but you don't," Elena countered.

"I suppose you do?" Ruth delivered her words carefully, sensing dangerous ground.

"Harry. Ilya. James Coaver. They are all the same." Elena's voice hit the names of the men as if she were hammering nails. "Can you truthfully tell me that you have never felt used by Harry?"

Ruth stared unflinchingly at the woman. Mind games. Get into her head and question her assumptions. She could do this, she was strong enough. He had asked her to marry him, given up a state secret, he loved her.

"You were his emissary at the embassy reception to arrange our first meeting," Elena continued. "You came to the gallery instead of him to collect our communiqués." She had dropped another seed and waited for it to take root.

Don't listen, Ruth told herself, you know what she's doing. She heard Harry's voice at his tribunal, describing her as one of the nation's intelligence assets. Is that all she was? He could ask anything of her and she would comply, she knew her place, dependable Ruth. She had devised the plan to expose Coaver. She had explained the sordid mess to the team. Harry had sent her off to the Home Office without hesitation, only to pull her back in when he needed her to steal Coaver's laptop. Afterwards, when she had phoned him, shaken and overcome with guilt, wanting to know if she was just an asset, he had fobbed her off with a comment about timing. Now, here she was alone, left to deal with the fallout from the laptop. She looked up and saw Elena watching her, a slight smile tipping the corner of the woman's mouth, her eyes holding the same glint she had seen in Mace's. Between a cat's paw.

"He took me to his safe house and held me in his arms," Elena goaded. "Would a man who loves you do that?"

Ruth blinked, the breath knocked out of her, like a blow to the stomach. She remembered the sight of Elena in Harry's arms at the park after the attempt on her life, the slash of pain it had caused. Her mind filled with images of Harry and Elena together, lips and limbs entangled. She kept her breath steady forcing it down into the pit of her stomach but instead of dissipating her anger, the pressure caused it to churn, stoking itself, becoming white hot. All the anger she had felt over the past weeks towards Harry, towards this woman, the Service, rising back up into her chest. She dared not breathe for fear of fanning the flames.

Sensing Ruth's tension, Zoe nervously shifted in her seat. "Ruth," she cautioned in a low voice.

"Did you ask him to go away with you?" Elena continued, knowing the knife had hit the mark, twisting it deeper. "You wonder how I know? Because I asked the same. And he left me. Like he left you. Why? Because of country. They will always choose country over us. And now they taste what it is like to be betrayed."

Ruth's mind split in two, the rational part falling away, rage breaking through the cracks, overflowing, washing away sensible thought. She grabbed Elena's arm, the skin wonderfully pale and exposed, and circle her fingers around it like a vice. With all the force of her anger, she propelled the pen down, piercing the soft flesh.

Shocked, Elena looked down at her arm and then back up at Ruth. "What have you done?"

Ruth sat back, her chest heaving as she attempted to control her breath. She would never again judge Harry for losing his temper, now that she had experienced the glorious power of harnessing her rage and directing it at one single person. Having finally emptied the boiling pot of her emotions, her mind became clear. "I don't care what happened between you and Harry in the past. I want to know what's happening now."

"What? What is this?" Elena rubbed her arm as if it would remove the injection, a realisation dawning on her and she gave out a tiny huff. "Is it truth serum?" she asked incredulously. "You must be joking!"

"Sodium pentothal? How very cold war. A bit before my time." She looked at Elena coolly. "It's Vipera ammodytes. Otherwise known as snake venom."

A look of disbelief and then utter horror crossed Elena's face. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I know, not very elegant but there wasn't a lot of time."

"I am wife of Russian Minister. There will be consequences."

"I'm sure there will be," Ruth ruefully agreed.

Zoe leaned over and placed a warning hand on her arm. "Ruth, what are you doing?"

"There is an antivenin but I'm not sure if I have that pen on me." Ruth pretended to search through her clutch.

Elena stood and Zoe released Ruth's arm, rising quickly to block the exit.

"Pieter," Elena called to her bodyguard.

"He's not there," said Zoe. "Our associate took care of him."

Elena sat down, her breathing becoming harsh. "I don't believe you. You are bluffing."

"Do you want to take that chance?" Ruth asked. "Perhaps you're a bit thirsty? A little dizzy? Muscles feeling weak?"

Elena licked her lips and swallowed. "What do you want from me?"

"Is the bomb threat real?" asked Ruth.

Rubbing her hand over the injection site, Elena rocked in her seat and looked at the ground. "No. It is a diversion. As is the protest. To cast suspicion on elements from Moldova.

"For what?" Ruth prodded.

"Moldova will commit an act of aggression against Russia, and we will take Transnistria back."

"But if the bomb threat is misdirection, how will you do it?"

"Show me the cure and I will tell you."

Ruth pulled out another pen from her purse.

"When you evacuate the building, in the confusion, Ilya will be killed."

"A Moldovan will be blamed?" asked Ruth. Elena nodded. "You would let you own husband die?"

Elena leaned forward in her chair, speaking in a confidential tone as if Ruth would understand. "He will always be KGB. He only knows how to use people. He thinks because he loves me it is not manipulation. But that is the most insidious kind of love."

Ruth flinched at the words. Love. Manipulation. She had underestimated her armor, she had thought it was stronger, but it was full of dents and punctures, pieces falling away. Elena, Mace, even Harry, they had played this game far longer, how naive to think she could match them and come away unscathed. She rolled the other pen in her hand, wanting to leave, but she could not walk away, she needed information.

"How?"

Elena looked away. "Maybe I choose to die for my country."

Ruth leaned over and grabbed Elena's arm, forcing the other woman to look at her. "How?" There was no reply. Up close, she could see the fine lines around Elena's eyes, the creases at the corner of her mouth, smell the aroma of her heavy perfume, feeling the softness of her arm. At one time, this woman had been young and beautiful and Harry had loved her. It had all fallen apart and this is what she had become. Ruth saw her own years unfolding before her, marked by loss and unhappiness. Old, bitter and motivated by betrayal. Elena looked up; her eyes boring into Ruth, hard, dark and distinctly brown. The question Ruth had asked herself when she had looked into Sasha's tortured blue eyes resurfaced.

"Is Harry Sasha's father?" she whispered.

"Harry believes it, that's all that matters. It worked when KGB wanted me to go with Harry. Once they have you, they never let you go."

Ruth sat back in her chair, digesting the information. It was true, hadn't she thought she was free only to be reeled back in.

"I could have raised Sasha in the west, he could have been a different man, not full of lies and secrets like us." Elena continued, her confession pouring out. "Sasha thinks Harry is his father. Now, he sees Ilya as he truly is, the man who ruined his life and betrayed Russia's secrets."

"So this was all a grand design to punish Harry and Ilya and Coaver."

"No, it is all to make Russia great again. The rest was coincidence. It is not very often one's desires align with the needs of the country."

Ruth nodded. "And Mace? What is his role in this?

"You need to ask Sahsa." Elena closed her eyes and sank back into her chair. "I don't feel so well. Please, give me the antidote."

Ruth rose. "I can't. I don't have it." She walked to the dressing room door.

"No, no! Where are you going?" Elena yelled after her. "I told you everything I know!"

Ruth motioned for Zoe to follow her, Elena's voice calling after them.

"What are you doing? You can't leave me!"

Stepping outside, Ruth closed the dressing room door, holding her hand out to Zoe for the key.

"You're not really going to leave her, are you?" Zoe asked, handing the key over, a hint of reluctance in her voice.

"There was a Section Chief, Ros Myers, who had this piece of advice; don't make a decision you can't live with." Ruth locked the door with a quick turn of the key and stepped back. She leaned against the opposite wall, her heart still pounding from the encounter. "It was a muscle relaxant. At the worse, she'll wake up with a headache." She closed her eyes, her own head throbbing, the taste of bile rising in her back of her throat at the thought of what she had done. She massaged her forehead, wondering what had become of the unconscious bodyguard.

Zoe leaned beside Ruth and let out a sigh of relief. "That's something Harry would do."

"I am not Harry," Ruth stated emphatically.

Zoe turned, resting her shoulder against the wall as she regarded Ruth. "So ... you and Harry?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." Ruth pushed herself away from the wall and started down the hall. "It's complicated."

"Quantum physics is complicated. Love doesn't have to be," said Zoe, falling into step alongside her.

"Spy love is." Ruth gave Zoe a knowing look. "Check and see if Malcolm copied everything."

Pressing her fingers to her forearm, Zoe spoke to Malcolm, confirming that he had received all the information. She nodded to Ruth.

"It was obtained under duress so I don't know if it will carry any weight," Ruth acknowledged.

Zoe moved her head, listening to Malcolm. "It's too late. They're already evacuating. Towers is asking for you."

"Let's go then." Ruth picked up her pace and Zoe followed her down the backstage corridor, towards the stairs.

They entered the lobby to find a sea of people moving towards the exits, most in vary states of agitation while others grumbled at the loss of a good ballet and wondered if they would receive a refund.

Ruth spoke into her coms device "Do you have eyes on Gavrik?" The reply was negative from Malcolm.

Zoe looked at her watch. "We have to go. Let the Service look after the rest."

They joined the crowd as it funnelled its way towards the door, bodies wedging between them, pushing the two women apart. Ruth stopped and looked around for Zoe, silently cursing her lack of height. There was a break in the crowd and she looked up, her eyes wide, her heart caught in her throat, frozen.

Harry.

He stood across the lobby, looking straight at her. She wanted to run to him and warn him away, but her feet were lead, her legs too weak. She could only watch as he deftly shouldered his way through the crowd, never once taking his eyes off her. Slowly, in and out, with each inhalation, she drew him closer. Patrons bumped into her but she remained rooted to the spot, afraid that they might lose sight of each other. Without breaking his stride, he grabbed her upper arm and swiftly pulled her upstream through the throng of people. He came across a small alcove, no bigger than a wardrobe and drew her inside with him.

It was a dimly lit a sanctuary away from the chaos of the lobby, the space so narrow their bellies touching when they breathed. She remembered the night in the alley when she had delivered the drop to him. Trying to keep her head clear, she pulled back her torso, her spine flush against the wall. Disconcerted by his appearance, unaccustomed to seeing him in anything other than a suit, she felt completely overwhelmed by his proximity. It took a moment to adjust to this other Harry, clad in an Anorak and jeans, his dark shirt exposed throat. She could feel his eyes roaming over her, taking in her changed appearance, the upswept hair, the cut of the dress clinging to her figure. The air was close; her head dizzy from the wine and her encounter with Elena. She swayed, wanting to place her hands on his hips for support, to know that he was real. He gave a furtive glance over his shoulder and moved them further into the alcove, pressing his body into her, acting as a shield from the eyes of the crowd. There was no air, she could only breathe him.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

She nodded, using the wall for support instead of him, knowing that if they were any other couple they would be kissing instead of discussing national security. "You not supposed to be here," she chastised in a panicked whisper.

"What's happening?" Harry asked urgently.

She silently moved her mouth, searching for words as she blinked in an effort to focus on the immediate crisis. "The bomb threat is a diversion."

"How do you know?" asked Harry.

"Elena. We had a conversation. She's unconscious in a dressing room." She saw his eyebrows rise and what looked like a glint of pride. "It's a distraction for another assassination attempt on Gavrik. It's all somehow supposed to bring Transnistria back to Russia."

"The assassination, how is it happening?"

Ruth shook her head. "I couldn't get it from Elena." She raised her arm to speak into her sleeve and it brushed against Harry's chest. Their eyes locked as she held her arm suspended between them, one side touching her breast, the other pressing against him. She could hear her heart beating as their breaths fell into sync. Their eyes remained hooked on each other as she spoke to Malcolm. "Do you have a trace on Sasha?" She paused to listen and then repeated what she had heard. "He's in the rehearsal hall."

Sasha. The latest wedge in a list of many. She would kick it away. "He's not your son." Harry looked at her, incredulity written on his face. "It was a ploy so that you would take her out of Russian. The information must have been on Coaver's laptop because now Sasha believes that you're his father."

Harry's mouth closed in a grim line. "Is he involved?" he calmly asked, any emotion from the revelation neatly sliced away.

"I think so. She told me to ask him about Mace."

"What's Mace's role in all this?"

"I don't know. He was stationed in Moldova. There are so many indications that he is working with the Russians but nothing solid. He knows I stole the laptop. He's going to hand me over to the Americans."

The crackle of Zoe's voice came through the earpiece. "Ruth, we have to go."

"Harry," she spoke with as much command as she could muster. "Callum knows everything; we can leave this to the Service."

"Mace wriggled out once before, he'll do it again."

Ruth clutched his arm, her fingers worrying the fabric of his sleeve, the feel of the coat so different from his usual suit jacket. "I have an exit plan."

"You of all people know what Mace is capable of. I can't leave; he'll destroy everything we've built."

'You can't fight it alone."

"I can't turn my back on the Service."

"They turned their back on you. They were willing to let you be extradited."

Zoe's insistent voice echoed in her ear. "Ruth!"

There was never enough time. "Please, Harry," she entreated, "don't let him tear us apart again."

"Is there an 'us', Ruth? Because there have been times when it has all felt terribly one-sided."

"No, no," she countered, her voice throaty and raw, "that's not true."

She looked at him, her eyes pleading. Please, please don't let Elena be right, she prayed. Words screamed in her head that she dared not say aloud. Choose me. Choose us. He tore his eyes from hers, the same look passing over his face that he had worn that day on the park bench when she had said she would stay if he asked. He didn't need to tell her, she knew what he would say. No, she silently cried. She inhaled deeply, swallowing the tears, and squeezed her eyes shut. She would not cry. She opened her eyes and saw him anew, looking younger than had ever seen him, a spring wound tight, ready for action. Was this what he had been like in the field? She had cursed him that day, back on the shoal, for giving up, for not fighting. Now, here he stood reinvigorated, back in the game, ready to take on the world. She could not fault him for being the man she had wanted him to be. He could leave the Service but the Service would always be in him.

Ruth's earpiece rang with the urgency of Zoe's voice. "Ruth! We've got to go!"

She turned her head, scanning the crowd, and saw Zoe waiting for her. Tom stood a few paces behind. The two former spooks creating a tableau, beckoning her to another life. Harry followed her gaze and she could hear the sharp intake of his breath as he recognised Zoe. She could sense the tension in his body, the familiar tightness of his muscles as anger emanated from him. She had seen this internal war before; it was how he hardened himself to an unpalatable decision. His hands grasped her arms, his thumbs digging into her biceps causing her shoulders to rise. She felt pulled in and pushed away at the same time, her head wobbling from the force of his grip. He face came in close, his voice raspy, convincing her with the intensity of his words.

"You'll be safer without me. All the pain in your life has been because of me."

The words were not meant to be hurtful but she had no armour left and they cut deep. Her heart pounded in her chest. If she didn't look at him, it wouldn't be real. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't cry.

"We've both lost so many people," he reminded her. "The only reason Tom and Zoe are alive is because they left the Service. I'd rather give you up this way than lose you as I lost all the others."

Don't cry. Don't cry.

"Ruth." He moved his head, finding her eyes, forcing her to look at him. "You need to know that I do, I always have, always will-"

"No," she cut him off harshly, her voice wavering. "You do not get to say those words and then tell me to leave."

She saw a flicker of pain in his eyes and for one ungenerous moment, she was glad that she had hurt him. Stupid man. Why did he have to be so bloody noble? She hung her head under the weight of her ungracious thought and instantly regretted her harsh tone. She raised her eyes to him with a look of contrition. She knew him so well and yet they would never be in the same place. How many times had she acquiesced to this man when she had not agreed to his decision? This would be the last time. Her jaw clenched, her throat muscles tight and she nodded. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp on her purse and she took out the pen. He looked down at her with confusion on his face as she placed it in his coat pocket.

"It's to write your own ending," she quietly explained.

His eyes, dark in the half-light, searched her face, looking for absolution, permission to carry on. What would she accomplish if she withheld it? She raised her hand to his face, her fingers cupping the side of his jaw and she drew his check down alongside hers. She closed her eyes and blocked out the cacophony of sounds around them. If they stood completely still, time would stop. It didn't. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with one final breath of him. Moving her lips to his ear she murmured, "It was a lovely night out." She turned his face towards hers and their lips met in a soft, brief kiss. At that moment, she understood why his kiss that day on the shoal had been so fleeting. If the kiss was too long and too deep, it was too hard to say goodbye. That was one art they had mastered. The fabric of their relationship was woven together with goodbyes

She pulled away, twisting out of the confines of the alcove, knowing by the tingling sensation on the back of her neck that his eyes were following her. She walked towards Zoe, grasping the woman's outstretched hand as if it were a lifeline. Overcome by the noise of the evacuation, unable to think, she let herself be pulled along, guided through the sea of people. The last chords of the ballet played in her head and Elena's words filled her ears. Unlike Giselle, she would not die of her broken heart; she would have to live.


	9. Chapter 8

A/N – Thank you for continuing to read and following along with this tangled plot. This is the penultimate chapter. It's a bit longer and packed with obligatory Spooks plot holes. Enjoy!

* * *

He couldn't breathe. A fissure slowly expanded through his chest, pieces of his heart falling away, leaving him hollow. A thousand shards of ice pierced his lungs. What had he done?

Harry stood suspended in the alcove, unable to tear his eyes from Ruth's retreating back. A string unravelled from the emptiness of his chest pulling him towards her, but his legs refused to move. By her side, he saw Zoe confidently cutting her way through the crowd. His old anger resurfaced at the loss of an agent that had held potential, a victim of pandering politicians showing that the Service was not above the law. She had looked magnificent standing there waiting for Ruth. He saw Tom's dark head, focused and assured, clearing the way for them. They were all of them safer for having left him. He had too many enemies. Anyone within his orbit was sure to be burned. He had deceived himself into thinking they could ever have a life together, a marriage, a home. There would always be something waiting to cleave them apart. He saw one last glimpse of the black dress and then nothing. It was his penance to be alone.

He jerked his head away from the door, his body following. Ruminating on the loss would accomplish nothing. He wedged his way through the last of the crowd, one thought in mind; if he had given up everything, it would not be in vain. He would obliterate Mace once and for all or die trying. The crowd thinned out as he neared the backstage stairs. He had to find his way down to the rehearsal hall. As he approached, a CO19 officer blocked his path.

"Sorry Sir, we're evacuating the building."

"Security Services," Harry responded gruffly.

"Orders are no one is allowed backstage."

"On whose authority?" Harry asked suspiciously, knowing it was somehow tied to Mace.

"Security Services," the officer responded with an ironic look.

Harry let out a huff and pushed past the man.

"Sir," the officer yelled after him, "if you do not stop immediately, I will report you."

"You do that." Harry walked on despite the warning, calling over his shoulder. "Tell them that Harry Pearce is back."

...

The crowd spilled out through the theatre doors, lost souls clogging up the road and sidewalk. Intermittent drops of rain sent people scattering for cover, umbrellas sprouting up like black flowers. Controlled chaos, Ruth thought. She was thankful for Zoe's firm grip on her hand. If they were separated, she would surely float away on the sea of people, not caring which way the current took her. All she could see was Harry. She should have tried harder to convince him, at the very least followed him to find Mace. It was too late. She felt a damp spot on her cheek. It wasn't a tear, she had not cried. Drops of rain spattered her face and she blinked, still lost in her stupor. Logically, she knew that the numbness was a damn and that once it had eroded away, the tears would flow unabated.

The two women walked along as fast as their high heels would let them, Ruth acknowledging that Zoe was far more adept in the footwear. She faintly heard Zoe cursing the fact that there were never any parking spots close to theatres. As they walked past the obo van on the opposite side of the street, Ruth pulled back on Zoe's hand; she should speak with Callum, make sure they were aware of Harry and everything that had transpired. Zoe sensed her hesitancy and dragged her forward. Zoe knew the secret to leaving; don't look back. They stopped beside a small car, Zoe opening the door and pushing Ruth into the back before she jumped in herself.

"Where's Harry?" asked Malcolm, ready at the wheel, the car engine humming in anticipation.

"He's not coming," Zoe answered briskly.

"What do you mean? This was all for him. What's he doing?"

"Being Harry." Zoe shook her head in exasperation.

Malcolm frowned not quite believing her. "What about Tom?"

"He's cleaning up." She settled herself into her seat and turned to Ruth. "What do you want to do now?"

Ruth kept her head bowed and inhaled a shaky breath. The whole purpose of the exercise had been to get Harry away from the CIA, but in her heart, she knew that she had wanted to free him from the clutches of the Service. She balled her hand into a fist and hit it against her thigh.

"He chose the Service, just like she said he would."

Zoe took Ruth's hand and unfurled her fingers from the fist she had made. She covered it with her fingers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Their entwined hands lay on the seat and Ruth looked down at them, thinking how often she had missed having a friend to share the burdens of her life. She hoped that she would not lose Zoe to wilds of the world again.

"Ruth," Zoe coaxed in a gentle tone, "You have to make a decision."

There was only one thing to do.

"We stick with the plan."

Malcolm craned his head around from the front seat. "But if Harry doesn't know..."

Ruth clenched her jaw, the muscles on her neck pulled taught as she fought the competing feelings of anger and heartbreak. "He'll just have to deal with the fallout."

Malcolm gave her a moment, a chance to change her mind. She had been through so much; the least he could do was support whatever she decided to do. Her face remained resolute. Nodding to her, he shifted into drive and slowly navigated the car through the pedestrian traffic.

Ruth shook the pins free of her hair instantly feeling more like herself. She unclasped the earrings and deposited them in the small purse, handing it all over to Zoe. Looking out through the window, she saw giant raindrops splattering the glass, morphing the passing lights into hazy, glowing orbs. A tear rolled down her cheek and she raised the heel of her palm to rub it away. She looked intently at the sleeve of her dress, imprinted with the communication device, and felt the threads seeping into her pores, just as the Service had done. She wanted to rip off the dress, her own skin if need be, anything it took to leave this twisted life behind. Stupid woman. They were never meant to be together. If they had not managed to sort themselves out in all these years, how could they have hoped to do it in a few stolen moments? She continued to stare out the window, her fingers searching to find Zoe's hand once more, the connection keeping her tethered to a sense of reality.

"I've always hated the damp," she mused, keeping her head turned away as she spoke. "I had a life once, in the sun."

"You'll l have it again," Zoe assured her.

"I hear it's 22 degrees in Santiago," Malcolm piped in.

"Yes, I'm sure it will be lovely." Ruth looked at Zoe and gave her a tremulous smile. The young woman smiled back at her.

"I've sent the boxes on ahead and your suitcase is in the back," Malcolm assured her.

Ruth nodded and took a deep breath. She had done all that she could.

The car reached a clearing in the traffic and Malcolm opened up the engine as they sped off into the London night.

...

White tiles and white lights; a hallway devoid of character. The nightmare scenario that frequented Harry's dreams. Running down a sterile hall, not knowing which door to open, unable to reach the target, out of time before disaster struck. He headed through the backstage corridor, eerily quiet, all non-essential personnel having left the building. He should look for Elena. He shook his head at the thought. Why would he feel any responsibility towards that woman? He was becoming soft. Emotionally compromised, Ruth had said. In a matter of weeks, he had found and lost a son, and learned that everything Elena had told him was a lie. It was all too much to comprehend. Later, he told himself. This was about Mace.

He came to a double door, surmising what lay behind it must be the rehearsal hall. He peered through the slit of a window. He pressed his ear against the metal door, listening for familiar voices. Stepping back, he looked around the hallway for a weapon, a steel pipe, a chair leg, anything. There was nothing. What he wouldn't do for a tie. It briefly crossed his mind that he should wait for backup. His Section Head voice said yes, the field agent in him said no, this was his battle and he would fight it on his own terms. Patting his coat pocket, he took a bracing breath and concluded that his wits would have to be his weapon.

He slowly opened the door, a blast of stale air rushing out to meet him and silently slid through the crack. Inside was a small vestibule, an antechamber to deaden the sound. Pressing himself against the wall, he inched towards the mouth of the rehearsal hall. He could hear voices. Gavrik. He was alive, that was a good sign. He waited, unable to distinguish the conversation. With half of an eye, he peered around the corner and followed a large bank of mirrors, coming to rest on Gavrik. He eased out another inch and realised that the man was talking to Sasha. One step further in and Harry could see the whole scene. Sasha stood facing Gavirk, a gun trained on the older man. Was Sasha the assassin? Shit, he thought, what nest of vipers was this? He heard the tiny click of the gun's safety trigger and he instinctually moved into the open.

"Sasha! Stop!

The young man turned to him, the barrel of the gun still pointing at Gavrik. "Pearce! What are you doing here?"

Harry met the young man's look, impressed that in the distraction he had not pulled his gun away from the intended target. He took a step closer and stopped when he saw Sasha's grip tighten on the gun. "What are you doing?"

"This man is a traitor to Russia."

"That man is your father."

"No. You are my father."

Unbalanced by the revelation, Gavirk stepped back and turned to look at Harry. Sasha moved in closer, his gun still raised, the bank of mirrors reflecting their distorted dance.

Harry took the opportunity to steal closer. "No, it's not true."

"Coaver's laptop. It said-"

"It was a ruse designed to bind me to you so I would bring your mother here."

"Sasha," Gavrik cautioned. "Whatever they have told you, it is a lie."

Harry echoed Gavrik. "Whatever she has told you to convince you to do this is a lie." He took another step forward, his hands raised. "If you must shoot someone, shoot me."

"Pearce what are you doing?" Gavrik asked, his voice remarkably calm for a man with a gun in his face.

Harry asked himself the same question, wondering what had possessed him to step in and save his old enemy. "I'm saving your life. Or more to the point, I'm averting a diplomatic implosion that could lead to a possible war."

A long, slow clap resonated throughout the hall.

"Oh, Harry, always the hero."

Harry's head snapped around. Hidden in the shadows, sitting by a grand piano, was Mace, his elbow resting on the keyboard, taking it all in as if he were watching a pantomime.

"Don't you know the world doesn't want heroes anymore?" Mace rose from the bench and walked across the floor, his dress shoes smartly tapping on the polished tiles. "Coaver's laptop was full intelligence on members of the FSB meeting with Transnistria. That's why we took it. The file indicating your paternity was a merely a bonus."

Sasha looked at Mace, confusion and hurt playing across his face. "I don't understand."

"Does it matter which man is your father?" Mace asked callously. He pointed at Gavrik "All that matters is that man is a traitor. He was willing to give up your country's secrets. His death is a small price to pay to reclaim what is rightfully Russia's."

"Sasha, you don't have to do this," Harry intervened.

"Look at the bigger picture, Harry," Mace scolded. "We don't want to share our secrets either."

"Why go through all this?" Harry asked.

"It was all a piece of theatre, everyone basking in the spirit of international cooperation to score political points. Come on Harry, you of all people don't believe we should give our intel to the Russians, you were balking at the bit the entire time."

"But to have a son kill his father? This makes us no better than our enemy."

"Get out of the Cold War, Harry. The enemy today is everywhere and nowhere. All our wars are fought by proxy. We need pawns like Transnistria. We give it up to Russia so they can monitor the arms trade. We need an eye on them to control even smaller pawns."

"We can't sacrifice up a piece of a country to protect intelligence."

"It's the way the game is played. Sometimes we lie with the bear sometimes we lie with the eagle."

"It's one more step on a slippery slope and then we have no moral ground to stand on."

"You were a far better agent when your morality was fluid. Or was that only in Ireland and Berlin?"

Harry looked at Mace, time tunneling on itself. This would be the last confrontation with this man. "I can't let this happen."

"It's already been decided by powers far greater than you or I. The assassination of a Russian minister on British soil by a Moldovan national. It will derail the process intelligence sharing and give Russian the reason to invade.."

"What Moldovan? I only see us."

"Don't worry, the service will find a suitable scapegoat. Let the boy get on with his patriotic duty."

"Sasha, don't do this."

Mace stepped in front of Harry, the same supercilious smirk on his face, and pulled out a mobile phone. "Did your little mouse tell you there wasn't a bomb? It's a lie. Elena played her part so well."

The mention of Elena's name stirred Gavrik from his role as bystander. "What have you done to her?"

"Did we both sacrifice our Queen's Harry?" asked Mace.

"Where is my mother?" Sasha's eyes flitted with anger between Mace and Harry.

Harry felt a ribbon of compassion for the young man, his sense of self so corrupted that he still cared for a Medea of a mother. "Your arm is tired, Sasha, put down the gun."

"It seems Elena and I both had a common cause in seeing you suffer." Mace drew Harry's attention back. "Of course, you're quite adept at ruining your personal life without our help. Such a touching goodbye in the lobby. This time for good, I hope."

"Some people are willing to make sacrifices for their country."

Mace waved his phone at Harry. "Gavrik dies, or I make the call and the bomb goes off, taking us all with it. But then, we're all prepared to make sacrifices for our country, aren't we?"

A deep voice spoke from the rehearsal room door. "No one needs to die today."

Tom stood in the doorway, a gun in his hand aimed straight at Mace.

Mace looked over at Harry with an arched brow. "Your agents have this annoying habit of not staying dead."

"He also has a habit of shooting his superior officers," Harry added. His eyes ran over the tableau before him. Tom holding his gun at Mace, Sasha holding his gun at Gavrik, Mace standing with his fingers poised on his mobile. As unobtrusively as possible, Harry slipped his hand into his pocket.

"Check and check again. Well played, Harry."

"I didn't set it up."

"Ah, your little mouse. Such a shame I had to feed her to the Americans. Was she that good, that you would have given up your freedom all those years ago? That you would give up a state secret for her. The actions of a desperate old man, she would never have you."

Harry regarded Mace; the invocation of Ruth's name served only to confirm that he had made the right decision in letting her go. "She's gone Mace; you can't use her against me."

Tom stirred in the background. "What do you want me to do, Harry?"

"End this charade Mace, walk away. Grasping at power doesn't suit you."

"Trying to appeal to my vanity, Harry? I have nothing to lose."

"None of us do. We're all desperate old men now. Nothing more than reflections of what we used to be." Harry kept his eyes trained on Mace but his voice signalled to Tom. "Do it."

"You wouldn't dare," Mace taunted.

"Go for the heart," Harry commanded.

Tom pulled the trigger. The shot echoed throughout the tiled room, as the bullet hit the wall of mirrors, glass shattering, shards flying through the air, slivers falling to the floor, cascading in a clinking symphony. All reaction slowed down, stretching out into infinite time. Gavrik bending over, his hands covering his head, Sasha raising his arms to protect himself. Mace stood stunned, certain that the bullet had been meant for him, amazed that he was not shot. Harry moved quickly, his speed a counterpoint to the slowed reactions of the other men. He retrieved the pen from his pocket and crossed to Mace in three steps. He pulled Mace into him, plunging the pen into the soft flesh of the other man's neck, feeling the release of whatever chemical was inside. With every fibre of his being, he hoped it was poison. Mace turned to Harry, his eyes wide in disbelief. Harry held the man in a half embrace, as Mace's muscle contracted and he began to slip. Harry leaned into his ear.

"Ruth says good-bye."

Harry removed his hold and stepped back, looking impassively at Mace. Confused, Mace raised his hand to the injection, his knees buckling under him as his mind raced through all the substances that could have possibly been in the needle. He gasped as his head began to swim, the rest of his body falling to the floor, the mobile falling from his hand as his arm stretched out to break his descent. He collapsed on the ground and saw the device slowly slide across the tiles. Muscles and mind unable to work together, he reached for the phone, his fingers grasping.

Harry's foot came down on Mace's wrist. "I'll be holding onto that." He bent over and picked up the mobile. "Whatever did we do without burner phones and sim cards?"

The crunch of broken glass underfoot caused Harry to turn. Gavrik was bleeding from a cut to the temple, while Sasha stood in shock, his gun hanging limply by his side. Harry held out his hand to take the side arm.

"Give me the gun Sasha, it's all over. Go find your Mother. She's in a dressing room."

The young man looked between Harry and Gavrik, his eyes finally settling on Tom. Harry knew what the he was thinking; he could deal with the older men, but Tom was a ringer, an unknown quantity. Rather than surrender his sidearm, he put it back in his belt and walked out of the room.

Gavrik spoke to Harry. "What do we do now?"

Harry felt a flicker of regret that he did not have another syringe to inject into the man's neck. What would be the point now? Their war was long over. "Go home to your tortoise, Ilya. It is my sincerest hope that we never meet again." Harry walked toward the door, stopping for one last comment. "And you might want to call an ambulance. It's entirely up to you." Harry strode out of the room, Tom following close behind.

Charged with exhilaration, Harry flew down the hall, Tom at his side. As in days gone by, their steps rang with a matching intensity. He felt invigorated, alive; this was what he was meant to do. He needed to find Erin, someone in charge, apprise them of the developments. The sim card on the burner phone would be enough to indict Mace and put him away for good. When it all came to light, he would be exonerated from Coaver's death and hopefully it would be enough to have him reinstated.

Harry carried on for a few more paces and then paused, feeling the absence of Tom at his shoulder. He turned around to see the man standing in the middle of the corridor.

"What is the cost, Harry?" Tom asked.

Harry looked at him, confused by the nature of the question.

"The cost of being a spy?" Tom elaborated. "Who decides when you've paid the price? Hmm?" He tilted his head as he waited for Harry to answer. "Some bureaucrat? A bullet?" He stepped forward, closing the gap between them. "The fate of the western world doesn't rest on your shoulders alone. None of us is indispensable. There are other people willing to step up and make sacrifices for this country."

Harry regarded him, his eyes boring into the younger man, unwilling to admit he had a point. "The Service is my life."

"It's not a life, Harry. You know that. Step down"

"Are you decommissioning me?" Harry asked wryly, wondering if the world had come full circle.

"Sometimes it takes a greater courage to leave than to stay."

"Thank you for the platitudes."

"You told me once, as I was leaving, that you envied me. I thought you were crazy but I found a better life. I have to go home now, Harry. My family is waiting for me." With that, Tom turned and walked away.

"Tom!" Harry yelled after him. The younger man turned back around to face him. "Thank you." Harry stated simply. Tom nodded and then was gone.

A stinging sensation pricked at the back of Harry's hand and he looked down to see a thin trail of blood winding its way toward his knuckles. Embedded in the flesh was a small sliver from the mirror. He had not noticed it before, the adrenaline rush masking any pain. With a small wince, he pulled the splinter free and examined it. While the other men had turned away to protect themselves, he had watched as the crack from the bullet snake over the mirror, large chunks falling away, his own reflection coming apart piece by piece. All that remained was a tiny shard. After all this time, what was left of himself? Was this now his destiny; a constant need for adrenaline in order to avoid feeling pain?

He let the fragment from the mirror drop from his hand and followed Tom's footsteps.

...

The rain gently tapped on the windshield as Harry sat in the rental car. He knew the blind spot in the camera field; he was parked far enough away. The doors of Thames House stood oblivious to the comings and goings of its agents. Death and betrayal meant nothing to its unfeeling exterior.

What would he be leaving behind, should he never step through those doors again? A bottle of decent scotch? A career of narrow escapes, having been shot, tortured, kidnapped, left for dead. It should have ended years ago, after Albany, after Coaver. He should be rotting in an American prison. How many times could he dodge the bullet? He had given his life to the service. Many lives. Given his marriage, his family, Ruth. That was the cost and he had paid it, ten times over. Now his time was up. The end would not be nicely wrapped up with a bow. No gold watch at the end of a stellar career. It was messy and complicated.

He ran his thumb over the steering wheel and remembered the last words she had said to him. A lovely night out. Sentimental words, he thought, the emotion of the moment causing her to espouse words that only they had shared.

He rotated his shoulder, one of the many parts of him that ached in the dampness. Perhaps the sight of Tom had caused the ghost of the wound to flare up. When he had lain in the hospital, recovering, she had come to him, saying she was his lover, a ploy to pass on a coded message about Mace.

A lovely night out.

His thumb froze on the steering wheel and he straightened his shoulders. What if she wasn't being sentimental? What if she was being Ruth?

He started the ignition and rolled quietly out into the street.

...

The cobblestones were slick with rain and Harry carefully trod on them, winding his way between the trash bins. The smell of rotting food lingered in the damp air, all the previous allure of the alley now missing. He heard the sizzle of the exit sign before he came upon it, the whir of the exhaust fan stirring up just as he stood underneath it. He took a step deeper into the darkness of the alley, to the spot where he had pressed into her, under the guise of protection. Where he had held her in his arms and felt the softness of her lips. He closed his eyes, remembering it all, a warmth flickering in his belly and then quickly extinguished.

He opened his eyes and scanned the wall, searching, his fingers moving across the rough brick until he came across a protruding piece of plastic. He wriggled it to free it from its hiding spot and held it in his palm. A small grey flash drive. He rolled it around in his fingers and wondered where he could find an internet cafe open at that hour. No, that wasn't it, she wouldn't do that. He fished his car keys from his pocket and slipped the jagged metal between the seams of the plastic. It broke apart. The message was inside.

...

The red wall looked down on them as they sat around the desk, eyeing up the decanter of scotch. Erin, still in her evening gown, Dimitri across from her, the tie from his tuxedo dangling around his neck. Callum leaned forward from his chair, gave a quick glance to the pods, and then looked back at Erin.

"He's going to walk through that door any minute and give us hell for breaking into his stash," Callum warned.

Erin looked at him. "I feel like I've lived ten days in one." A soft pop sounded as she pulled out the stopper, clinking the edge of the tumblers as she poured them each a measure of scotch. She leaned back in her chair and looked at Dimitri. "Report?"

"Both Mace and Elena are in hospital. Each of them claiming they were attacked by Harry and Ruth."

Erin shook her head in disbelief. "How do we get them out of that?

"I'm glad you asked," said Callum. From his pocket, he produced a burner phone wrapped in a plastic bag. "One mobile, belonging to Oliver Mace. It will give us the answer to why Harry attacked him. And this..." He pulled out a flash drive. "Is a handy little recording that will tell us why Ruth attacked Elena."

"Do I want to know how you got those?" Erin asked.

"Best not to ask those questions."

"There was a small explosive device in a dressing room,"Dimitri continued. "It was rigged to go off by mobile detonation."

Callum raised his eyebrows and gestured at the mobile in the plastic bag.

The ringing of the desk phone startled them and Erin looked between her two colleagues. Picking up the receiver, she answered brusquely, "Erin Watts." Her brows furrowed together as she listened to the caller. "What?" Her eyes flew to Callum and she gave him a questioning stare. "Yes," she continued, "Yes, I understand. Of course." She replaced the receiver on the cradle, keeping her eyes on Callum.

"Harry and Ruth have been spotted. Their passports were flagged at Heathrow."

Callum's eyes shifted over to the safe beside Harry's desk. So that's why Ruth had wanted Harry's passport.

Dimitri sat up in his chair. "Did they catch them?"

"No," Erin continued. "Apparently the hold on Harry's passport had been terminated and he was free to leave the country." She looked pointedly at Callum.

The young man raised his free hand in the air. "Don't look at me." He smiled to himself, knowing that somehow, Malcolm had used Ruth's security clearance to deactivate the hold.

"Where are they headed?" Dimitri asked.

"South America." She narrowed her eyes at Dimitri as he sat back in his chair nodding his head, a tiny smile on his face. Erin took a large gulp of her scotch. "You know what? I don't want to know."

"What are we going to do?"

"Unless they give us tickets to South America to track them down, we'll just keep doing what we do best," said Erin. "Until the find another person to realign our priorities, Dimitri, I'm making you Section Chief."

"What about me?" asked Callum.

"You can be everything else," Erin smiled at him over the rim of her glass as she took a drink.

Dimitri tapped his fingers on his glass. "He told me to save enough money to retire some place warm and never drink a scotch less than ten years old."

Callum raised his glass. "Retirement and a decent scotch."

...

The bell softly dinged as the overhead light on the passenger icon change. The dulcet tone of the flight attendant came over the address system, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the captain has turned off the seatbelt sign. You are now free to move about the cabin."

Taking her gaze away from the window, she hurriedly unclasped the seatbelt, hating the restriction of the belt across her stomach. She badly needed to stretch her legs and wasn't sure if she could handle the fourteen hour flight time. She heard the squeak of trolley wheels as the flight attendant moved down the aisle with the refreshment cart and couldn't decide which she needed more; food or a stiff drink. She felt her companion stirring beside her, his fingers still tensely gripping the armrest as he softly chewed gum in an effort to stop his ears from popping.

"I do hope Mother remembers to take her Ciclosporin."

She placed her hand on his. "You can take off your seat belt, Malcolm."

"Aviation statistics indicate that leaving your seatbelt on while sitting reduces injury in the event of sudden turbulence." He leaned his head into her. "And we had better use the right names if we are to keep up the cover."

"You might have to nudge me if I don't answer. I have a hard enough time remembering Gina." Zoe raised her head as the refreshment trolley neared. "You'll have to order a scotch then though I've no idea what Ruth drinks."

"I hope she'll be alright," Malcolm whispered.

"She's is quite brilliant," Zoe reminded him.

"Sometimes it's thinking that gets one in trouble."

"I never would have thought of them together. Maybe there were signs that I missed all those years ago. I was a bit absorbed in my own drama at the time."

"I put my foot in it once. And when she returned it wasn't under the best of circumstances."

"There's nothing we can do now. They'll have to sort it out themselves."

That's what I'm afraid of," sighed Malcolm.

She smiled at him affectionately, thinking how nice it was to take back a piece of her old life. She couldn't think of a better soul than Malcolm. She would show him the sights, help him relax, maybe he would find the woman that he deserved. She looked out the window, a blanket of blackness surrounding them as the plane hurtled through the night and made a fervent wish that not all their work had been in vain.


	10. Chapter 9

_A/N – Thank you once again for reading this tangled tale. You've probably guessed where this is heading and there is a wee dip into M territory. Hope you still find something to enjoy!_

* * *

The rain fell in curtains; the rhythmic beating of the wipers proving ineffectual against the torrents of water. Harry's eyes darted between the road and the Satnav. He had keyed in the coordinates and headed out of the city without looking back. No evasive manoeuvres, no bait and switch. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of detection. Had he been too careless? Was there a tracker on the car, had they linked into the GPS?

The arrow on the Satnav showed an upcoming turn and he slowed down, finding himself at the mouth of a laneway. He eased his way onto the gravel track, driving until the counter indicated that he had arrived, though at that moment he could be in the middle of the sea for all he knew. He sat in the car peering into the darkness, the beam of his headlights faintly showing the outline of a house. He turned off the engine and sat listening to the rain batter his car. He had heard that this part of the country didn't receive as much rain as the rest. He must have been misinformed. It was still close to London, practically under their noses, but then hiding in plain sight had always been one of his favourite tactics.

The moment he stepped out of the car and into the deluge he was soaked through. Cold droplets seeped through his collar, sliding down the back of his neck. He didn't care, it made him feel clean, washing away everything that had gone on before. He squinted at the house; it was shrouded in complete darkness and he wondered if he was in the right place. He laughed at himself. Did he expect she would be burning a candle in the window for him?

As he walked toward the house, he observed the tattered garden, the uneven stones of the walk and the peeling paint of the front door. From what he could see, the whole cottage was in need of repair. No more worse for wear than he was, he thought grimly. He raised his hand to knock and felt a twinge of apprehension. That to walk through that door was a step into the unknown. He had come this far, he couldn't turn back. He rapped his knuckles sharply on the wood and waited. There was no answer. Stepping away from the shelter of the overhang, he scanned the upper floor. Still no lights. He wiped the rain away from his face, the water dripping off his hands and for the first time realised that he wasn't wearing any gloves. He looked down as he flexed his fingers and it dawned on him that he stood entirely bereft of his previous life. No mobile, no home, no identity. His only link to existence was the counterfeit paperwork of Geoffrey Inness. This was his only plan. It had not crossed his mind that she would not be here, waiting for him. The air was compressed from his lungs as a wave of panic washed over him, fear raising its head, that he had made the wrong decision, he had waited too long. No, no. She had to be here. Frustration rolled through him. Clenching his hand into a fist, he walked back to the door, pounding on the wood as if it were to blame for his current state.

The door opened, leaving his fist in mid-air. Ruth stood before him holding a small lantern, a look of surprise on her face. The beam of the lantern shone beacon bright in the darkness and it took him a second to adjust his eyes. He could see that she wrapped in a dark cardigan, wearing plaid pajama bottoms, her feet bare; hair tussled as if she had been sleeping.

He stood breathing heavily, the roil of panic and anger still fresh in his blood, pushing all logical thought from his mind. "The door needs a coat of paint."

The words landed like stones at her feet. She looked at him, her face cool, her posture unyielding. "Did you come all the way here to tell me that?"

She would never make it easy for him.

He looked at her, his chest heaving, a perplexed expression crossing his face as he realised what he had said. He started again. "May I come in?"

Her eyes ran over him and her look softened a fraction. Relenting, she stepped back to open the door wider, allowing him into the entryway.

"There're no lights," Harry observed.

"The storm," said Ruth, her only concession to an explanation. She closed the door and turned to face him, holding the lantern higher. "You're drenched."

"It's raining."

Having stated the obvious, the conversation halted, leaving them to stand in silence, the only sound the patter of rain. He waited for her to make an overture of welcome and seeing that none was forthcoming, he peeled off the wet anorak. He looked about for a hook and spied her grey coat hanging on the wall. He moved to place his coat next to hers and noticed the pool of water he had created. "Sorry about your floor." He looked up to see her staring at him. "What is it?"

"I don't think I've ever seen you out of a suit."

He tilted his head, an impish glint in his eye. "We both know that's not true."

She pulled the cardigan tight around her, wearing the expression he had become acquainted with over the past weeks; a hard line around her mouth, eyes narrowed, folding into herself, keeping him out. This was not the greeting he had expected. He had no he idea know to proceed. His only goal had been to get to her, the subject of any conversation after that had not been entertained. He searched his mind for something to say but she was the first to break the silence

"Why are you here, Harry?" she asked, her words barely audible. Before he could answer she continued, "You told me to go away. You said I'd be safer without you." She looked at him. "Why are you here?"

He blinked at her, thinking it was surely obvious. "You know why."

"I'm not a yo-yo that you can cast out and pull back in when you're ready."

"Neither am I, Ruth."

"When have I ever done that to you?"

"All the years we have known each other-"

"I didn't sleep with you and then tell you to go."

He closed his mouth, taken aback by her words, chastising himself for not considering the ramifications of sleeping with her. At heart, she would always be a desk spook, discreet, analytical, while he to the marrow of his bones was a field agent, daring, aggressive. A part of him would always crave the adrenaline rush of living on the edge. The night they had spent together had been fuelled by that heady concoction of living for the moment and the thought they might never see each other again. But it had meant more. So much more. Words tumbled in his head but he had no idea how to convey them.

"Ruth, that's not it at all-

"I don't think we're ever going to be in the same place, Harry."

"I'm here now."

"You said you would resign when it was all over, but it's never over, is it?"

"I have. I will."

She did not look at him, speaking to a point past his shoulder. 'You chose the Service. Like she said you would. You'll always choose the Service."

"That's not true; I gave up Albany for you."

"You had a contingency plan-

"You know me, Ruth. I couldn't leave Mace to run roughshod over everything."

"Yes, I do know you, Harry," she bit back at him. "And I know there will always be another Mace."

"You left the message in the alley for me-"

"There will always be a plot, a threat, a coup-"

"You wanted me to come here-"

She cut him off with an exasperated huff. "You don't understand."

Wrapped in frustration, she crossed in front of him, moving towards the hall. His hand whipped out and grabbed her forearm, jerking her back to him.

"Enlighten me." He fought against the anger that was coiling inside of him. He was exhausted, he had driven like a madman to get to her and it still wasn't enough. Why did everything about this woman have to be so bloody complex?

Nursing an anger of her own, she glared at him and struggled to free her arm from his grasp but he only strengthened his grip. She tried again, his fingers digging deeper into her flesh. They would battle it out, he decided, or this would be the end. He knew she would never be won over by force so he closed his eyes, trying to bring his anger under control.

He concentrated on the feel of her arm, the bone small and surprisingly hard under his hand. He could feel her warmth, radiating through the cardigan, seeping into his cold fingers and he relaxed his grip. Thinking that he was relenting, she tried to pull away, but he held on. He would never give up. He eased his fingers down her arm, his thumb finding its way under the edge of her sleeve, the calloused pad coming to rest against the delicate skin of her wrist. He pushed the wool up and rubbed his thumb over the soft flesh of her inner arm. His breathing steadied and the pulse of his anger slowed, beating to a tempo far deeper. All the tension of the past few days melted away pushed aside by thoughts of her. This is what she did for him. God, he needed her.

He swallowed and exhaled a shaky breath, opening his eyes. She was looking down at his hand on her arm, her lips slightly parted, the glow from the lantern softening her features, making her look incredibly young. His mind fell back to when she first came to him, fresh and new, how his eyes had hungrily following her about the Grid, imagining, hoping but never believing he could be with her.

"Ruth." It was all he could say. His only explanation for everything.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, coloured deep blue in the darkness. "What do you want from me?" she whispered.

"I want to kiss you." His answer was lightening quick, no thought needed.

"I mean," she closed her eyes and regrouped her thoughts, "what do you want from me in the future?"

"I want to kiss you every day of my life."

This time, she allowed a smile to ghost over her lips. She turned her head away from him, the line of her neck extending as she looked into the darkness of the house, the freckle at her collarbone exposed for him to see. He looked closer and saw a constellation of freckles running over her throat. He wanted to lean in and claim them with his mouth. His nostrils flared at the thought that her skin was a galaxy of freckles and he would discover them all.

A rumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

He drew her arm up to his chest, holding it there with the palm of his hand. She didn't pull away and he saw it as a sign. His free hand gravitated to her waist, sliding around her back, gently resting against her. She kept her face away, only her profile visible in the darkness. This was the way it was supposed to be. Touching but not touching. Never straight on, always oblique, somehow joined.

He bent to her ear but didn't speak, holding her in the moment, savouring her stillness, her breath suspended as she waited for him. His cheek brushed against her hair as he inhaled, the cloud of her scent enfolding him. Exhaling, he let the sigh wash over her cheek and watched in fascination as the rise and fall of her breasts quickened, as though his breath had filled her.

A fork of lightning split the sky and the air around them crackled with its latent electricity. The charge galvanised him, giving him courage and he pressed his palm into the small of her back.

"Show me your house, Ruth," he whispered.

She furrowed her brow; thoughts moving across her face. She spread her fingers over his chest, her arm tensing as if she meant to push him away. Instead, she swayed, ebbing and flowing with indecision. Let go, he silently coaxed, whatever you're holding onto let go and come to me. She tilted her head as if she had heard his thoughts.

"It was supposed to be our house," she murmured.

The words surprised him and he pondered their implication, letting their meaning sink in. A smile grew on his lips as his breath became shallow, his chest moving in time with hers.

"Show me our house."

After a moment of hesitation, she moved her fingers down his arm, and hooked onto his hand, pulling him along like a barge in the night. He followed without question; he was battered ship sorely in needed of a moor. They moved with the shadows through the living room, an empty space, barren but for a few sticks of furniture. He barely noticed, concentrating on the feel of her slender hand in his, his thumb rubbing over the small bumps of her knuckles. The muscles of her back moved sinuously under the fabric of her cardigan as she walked before him, steering him into the kitchen. A loud boom sounded and the sky was split by lightning, illuminating the room. She jumped, turning to him, her hand tightening on his. With great effort, he suppressed the desire to grab her, careen about the kitchen, knocking objects to the floor as they had done that night in his study, pushing her against the wall and take her there. If he had learned anything in the dense workings of his mind, timing was everything with this woman and they were not in the same place. Not yet.

Rounding back through the hall, they came to the bottom of the stairs. The tread creaked under their weight, his knee answering back with its own groan. The lantern moved with them, parting the darkness ahead, leaving the night below. When they arrived at the landing, she stopped at a doorway and leaned against the jamb, the lantern dangling by her side. Harry came to rest on the opposite side of the doorframe, reluctantly releasing her hand as she gestured down the hall.

"There are two bedrooms. One's rather small." She saw his quizzical expression. "I had thought it could be your office."

Harry nodded. "And what would I do in my office?"

Ruth coyly shrugged a shoulder and scrunched her lips together. "Collect stamps?" Harry looked at her with a raised eyebrow and she acknowledged the absurdity of her suggestion with the hint of a grin. She gestured into the room where they stood. "And I had thought in this one we could..." Her voice trailed off, her arm falling back to her side.

He looked into the room; it was bare but for a small table, a suitcase, and a bed. The sheets on the bed lay rumpled and inviting, and he felt a stirring deep in his belly at the thought that that they had held her warm body only a short while ago. He turned back to her, his voice low. "Indeed, we could."

He remained leaning against the doorjamb, his eyes greedily taking her in, wanting her but still unsure if it was the right time. She cleared her throat and he found himself waiting, content for her to take the lead.

"Is this the part where you tell me you missed me?" she asked.

"Is it?" he asked back, unsure of the direction of the conversation.

"Or at the very least, where you say that you love me."

His heart stopped. His lips parted but he was unable to speak. Words left unsaid all those years ago, words he had said in his head a thousand times. He swallowed, the enormity of the declaration becoming clear. She had wanted to hear the words spoken not out of desperation or last chances or goodbyes, but from a point of stillness, when they had finally arrived at the same place. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, but he could not move. Somehow, the words spilled out.

"I love you, Ruth Evershed."

She closed her eyes and smiled. "Actually, it's Susan Inness."

"You gave up your name?"

She lifted one shoulder in a delicate shrug as though it were of no consequence. He knew it was.

"Inness?" he mused. "Does that mean we're married?"

She nodded. "Fewer questions when the neighbours come round."

The thought that there had been a ceremony, however imaginary, where she had become his, filled him with untold joy. He smiled, feeling like a schoolboy playing a game, unwilling to let the image of their marriage out of his head. "Was it a nice wedding?"

"Very nice." She demurred, matching his mock-seriousness. "Simple. Elegant."

A solemn look came over her face, the ghost of a painful memory casting a shadow. Her expression was unguarded, a look of vulnerability that he had not witnessed in a very long time. He knew what she was remembering, the life she had lost, where he had sat helplessly by, watching as it was torn from her. He vowed to himself she would not go through such pain again. Sensing that she was drifting away, he reached out and took her hand in his.

"This is a fantasy, isn't it?" she quietly asked. '"Sooner or later they'll find us. They always do."

"We don't know that."

"Because I can't do it anymore, Harry. I can't go back."

He pulled her in, tucking her into his chest; his hand lifting to smooth her hair, fingers brushing strands over her ear. In the years past, he could not count the number of times that he had wanted to draw her close, give her strength, take away the pain, choosing instead to deny them both comfort, holding back because of his discipline or her reserve.

"I can't keep losing myself," Her voice broke as she spoke into his shirt, her arm tightening around him. "I can't keep losing you."

"We won't let them in," he whispered against her cheek.

He let her rest against him, thinking how right she felt in his arms. His lips pressed against her hair. They moved to her forehead, smoothing the lines, grazing her temple, the angle of her cheek, slow, tender. He could be patient. She tilted up to him, brushing her lips against his in answer, her hand rising to caress the nape of his neck. He knew that she was holding back, he could feel the weight of sadness in her body, the salty taste of a tear. It didn't have to be like this. All the years he had waited, chances stolen, opportunities squandered. This was their time and he could not waste it. The space between his kisses shortened and he grew more insistent, challenging her to meet him. Soon, her kisses matched his intensity and he could feel her body awakening beneath his hands. Abandoning all thoughts of patience, he crushed her to him, the force of his embrace lifting her to her toes. Opened mouthed , urgent, hungry, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, filling her up, demanding her to be present. Piece by piece she moulded into him, breasts, hips, thighs. His hands moved of their own accord, searching, needing contact, his cold fingers finding her warm flesh. Startled, she pulled back.

"You're freezing."

"You're beautiful." He grabbed her by the waist and reeled her back into him.

The lantern swayed as he spun her around, backing her into the bedroom, their shadows dancing upon the walls. Through kisses and half-closed eyes, he manoeuvred her over to the bed. Unwinding herself from his embrace, she placed the lantern on the table. His arms reached for her but she pulled back from his kiss, her hands framing his face, looking at him with concern.

"You must be tired."

He shook his head. He would not admit that he was running on fumes from his encounter with Mace. The moral failing of exhaustion would not deter him from his goal. He had come so close to losing it all; he would not let her slip away again.

Her thumb brushed along his cheek. "There's nothing here," she cautioned him. "No job, no threats, hardly any furniture. Only us."

He knew that she was hedging; giving him one last chance to bow out, but her warning meant nothing.

"All I need is you," he confessed. Her eyes searched his face, skeptical of his words, so he amended his needs. "And maybe a decent bottle of scotch, perhaps some chocolate buttons."

"Oh, well then, luckily I know a thing or two about buttons."

Her voice was low and teasing, and he drew back in fascination, revelling at this unseen side of her. One by one, she slowly released the buttons of his shirt and he stood motionless, mesmerised by her touch. The tip of her tongue flicked against her lip, and he involuntarily swallowed. How long could he stand there letting her undress him, relishing the fact that it was she who was moving toward him? Her hands slipped under his T-shirt, her fingers dragging along his skin, sending a shiver down to his toes. All resistance fled and he let out a small groan, giving in to the impulse to kiss her.

The edge of the bed was closer than he anticipated and they stumbled against it. Her hand reached out, grabbing him as she fell backwards, pulling him down with her, the bed bouncing under their combined weight. He adjusted his weight, afraid that he had crushed her but in the next instant he wanted nothing more than to surround her, pin her down, anything to keep her from running away. He knew that he was heavy, his clothes were wet, his belt buckle digging into her to stomach but she wriggled underneath him, her thigh pressing into is groin and the urge to move disappeared. He vaguely heard her voice and he eased his body to one side, allowing her to breathe. He gazed down at her heaving chest rising and falling before him in temptation. He pulled aside her cardigan, his mouth claiming freckled skin that had tantalised him earlier. He tugged at her clothes, fingers slipping beneath elastic, this time, her layers would not halt him; he had learned how to unwrap her. He pulled her upright, sliding her arms out of the sleeves, her shirt over her head. The lantern light played upon her skin and he gave thanks for the reality of her as he realised his memory had not done her justice. Could he ever have worked alongside this woman if he had known what lay beneath the layers? He stopped, wondering if he had spoken aloud for she was watching him with a curious look.

"I thought I had memorised every part of you, but I was wrong," he confessed. "I was wrong about everything."

His admission elicited a grin of triumph from her and he wanted nothing more than to kiss the smile from off her face. She could have this battle; all of them if it meant he could have her, for all he cared about at that moment were the layers impeding his progress. Standing beside the bed, he fumbled with his belt, his fingers still cold and numb. She knelt in front of him, helping to strip off his damp clothes, his soaked jeans falling to the floor, her nimble fingers removing every stitch. She pulled him back into the bed, drawing the sheets around them, pressing him back into the mattress, her mouth hot on his, the heat of her body flush against the coolness of his skin. His chest swelled against her breasts at the thought of the infinite nights that lay before them, and the infinite ways that he would love her. He would never let this maddening creature go. His hands travelled the length of her and he revelled in the feel of her yielding flesh against his hardness. Surely tonight she would forgive him if they came together hard and fast and lacking in grace, for he needed her, needed to feel alive.

Her lips pressed against his jaw, moving down his throat. Feather light fingers glide across his shoulder, slipping down his back, pressing into the contours of his spine. The seductiveness of her touch changed his mind and he wanted it all to last. He had not been held this way in such a long time, at least not by a woman who held his heart. Trailing her hand across his hip, she reached for him, her slender fingers stroking, capturing him. He inhaled sharply, hovering between the intensity of her touch and the knowledge that he could not hold on for long.

In one sinuous movement, he rolled her onto her back, his thigh between her legs in an effort to capture her. Instead, he was the one who was caught, held in the spell of her eyes. She had always held him in so many different ways. He needed to tell her something but he couldn't remember what it was, all rational thought was lost, he was lost; only appetite and desire remained.

"Your hands are still incredibly cold," she said, wriggling beneath him.

Her words roused him and he smiled down at her, knowing how he will warm them. His icy fingers traced the column of her throat, moving over her flushed skin, following the swell of her breast, lingering, kneading. He found the dip of her waist, the roundness of her hips, the soft flesh of her inner thigh, still searching for the source of her heat. She gasped. He had found it. He paused, watching her face, his fingers teasing, tantalising, promising pleasures yet to come. A low moan escaped from her lips and he smiled, satisfied that he finally had her in his thrall. She sighed his name and he relented, slowly sliding his finger into her. He was entranced by the tempo of her breaths, the drum of her heart as it beat against her ribcage, that he could play her in such a way. The cadence of her breaths quickened, soft whimpers turning to ragged pants, his own breathing mirroring hers. Her skin burned against him, a sheen of perspiration glowing over her body, as she arched into him. He cannot keep from tasting her, his mouth sucking on her breast. Lips on her belly, the crest of her hipbone, tongue moving to join his fingers. He has breached the last of her defenses, she writhes beneath him, surrendering as he brings her to a plateau of stillness. She is hot, molten, melting, liquid in his hands.

Her limbs shuddered and he could feel her falling and he catches her before it ends, plunging into her. He groaned, at the edge, straining to hold back. He searched his mind for something to focus on, anything other than her. She stirred beneath him, wrapping her legs enticingly around him, pulling him down, surrounding him. Her belly pushed against his, her hips moving in slow undulation and he cannot hold on. He has travelled so far, waited such a long time, wanting to share a bed with this woman. He is cold and tired and she is wonderfully wet and warm. He expelled a breath in defeat. As in life, he is fast when she is slow, stopping when she moves to quick. They paused, breathing heavily and by silent agreement started again, slowly moving together, finding a rhythm that was theirs alone. Beat by beat, their tempo accelerated, his arms shaking under the strain and he lowered himself, burying his face in her neck, intoxicated by her fragrance. His mind fills with visions of a field, the sun warming him, the fragrance of flowers and grass and sweet earth. He has he has captured her scent. Summer. She is summer to his aging winter. Oh, how he has longed for this. A slow heat ignited in his core, spreading through his veins, coursing out to his limbs. The ends of his fingers tingle and his skin grows taut. He is young and strong and he will have all of her. All conscious thought vanished and he became instinct. Heart pounding, blood racing, pulse roaring in his ears, his mouth on hers. Panting, thrusting, breaking. Sweet, warm, release.

He let go, giving everything over to her. He was nothing, a spent shell, collapsing on her. She will fill him up making him whole.

He tried to stay awake but his eyes would not cooperate. There was something he needed to tell her but he cannot think. He had journeyed to the temple, made his offering and now he only wanted to rest.

The rain beat against the roof, lashing at the exterior, battering the windows but no matter how hard it tried, it could not get into the house.

Their house.

She stared up at the ceiling, panting, her breast rising and falling, wondering where her mind had gone. The entire time his hands had roamed her body, she had been empty but for thoughts of him. This is what he did for her. A respite from the constant churning of her mind.

She turned her head to look at him. His were eyes closed, the tension gone from his limbs, his breath coming in slow, even waves. Raising herself on her elbow, she gazed down at his face, unlined, free of care, a glimpse of the boy he once was. She only wanted to know him now; this was the man she loved. Her brow creased in thought, she had forgotten to tell him that she loved him. He must know after all these years. It will give them something to talk about in the morning. For she has no idea how they will fill the time together. She had resigned herself to the impermanence of them; the siren call of the Service would beckon him, or some catastrophe would come knocking on the door of their Eden. As she watched him sleeping, she realised how fiercely she wanted to hold onto the idea of them, that they deserved peace and she would do everything she could to protect the little life they had carved out. She would not think on worries of the future, she would be more like him, present, holding on to every moment that fate had granted them.

Trying not to wake him, she reached across to turn off the lantern switch. His arms snapped up to trap her, holding her tight against his chest.

"Just so you know, I wasn't sleeping," he murmured in her ear.

She smiled against his cheek.

His voice was low and husky with fatigue. "I forgot to thank you for saving me."

The words touched her in an unexpected way and she felt tears building within her, not of sadness, but of relief. She pressed her lips to his ear and whispered softly. "I love you, Harry Pearce."

His arms tightened around her. "Actually, it's Geoffrey Inness."

He chuckled softly and the vibration of his chest struck a chord within her. The guilt that they have carried around for years lay in a corner, back in London. Here, they will laugh, and when they speak of their colleagues, it will be to remember their lives and not their deaths.

She felt a tingling along her forearm, the place where the communication device had been, the spot where he had grabbed her and held on. He would always be imprinted on her just as the Service was. They could change their names but they could not change who they were. He was her Harry and she was his Ruth. Spy and Analyst. She had said she could not go back but she knew the lure of intelligence, the power of knowing what lay beneath the surface. She was after all only human, just like him.

She folded herself into him, letting the darkness fall about them. No one knew where they were, they didn't exist. The shadows of the room grew, overtaking them, blurring the edges of where they ended and the night began. This was their home, the world in between. Spooks until the very end.


End file.
